IN  THE  HEART 
OF  A  FOOL 


William 
Allen 
White 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 


BY    WILLIAM  ALLEN   WHITE 

THE  REAL  ISSUE 

THE  COURT  OF  BOYVILLE 

STRATAGEMS  AND  SPOILS 

IN  OUR  TOWN 

A  CERTAIN  RICH  MAN 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

GOD'S  PUPPETS 

THE  MARTIAL   ADVENTURES  OF 
HENRY  AND  ME 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 


IN  THE  HEART  OF 
A  FOOL 


BY 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

Author  of  "In  Our  Town,"  "A  Certain  Rich  Man," 

"The  Martial  Adventures  of  Henry 

and  Me,"  etc. 


H3eto  gotfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1918 

Att  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1918 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    BEING  STAGE  DIRECTIONS,  AND  A  CAST  OP  CHAR 
ACTERS      1 

II  IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL  AND  His 
LADY  FAIR,  AND  WHAT  HE  SAID  IN  His  HEART 
—THE  SAME  BEING  THE  THEME  AND  THESIS 
OF  THIS  STORY 4 

III  IN    WHICH    WE    CONSIDER    THE    LADIES — GOD 

BLESS  'EM! 21 

IV  THE  ADAMS  FAMILY  BIBLE  LIES  LIKE  A  GEN 

TLEMAN    38 

y    IN  WHICH  MARGARET  MULLER  DWELLS  IN  M^TI- 
BLE  HALLS  AND  HENRY  FENN  AND  KENYON 
ADAMS  WIN  NOTABLE  VICTORIES      ...•.:    47 
(VI    ENTER  THE  BEAUTY  AND  CHIVALRY  OF  HARVEY; 

ALSO  HEREIN  WE  BREAK  OUR  FINEST  HEART  -.-    63 
VII    IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  How  LIFE  TRANSLATES  IT 
SELF  INTO  THE  MATERIALISM  AROUND  IT     .     .     69 
VHI    CAPTAIN  MORTON  ACTS  AS  COURT  HERALD  AND 
MORTY  SANDS  AND  GRANT  ADAMS  HEAR  SAD 

NEWS 80 

IX    WHEREIN  HENRY  FENN  TRIES  AN  INTERESTING 

EXPERIMENT 80 

X    IN  WHICH  MARY  ADAMS  TAKES  A  MUCH  NEEDED 

REST .     ...     98- 

XI    WHEREIN  A  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  AND  CAN 

FIND  ONLY  DUST ......  103 

XII    IN  WHICH  WE  LEARN  THAT  LOVE  Is  THE  LEVER 

THAT  MOVES  THE  WORLD  .......  114 


M865524 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII  IN  WHICH  WE  OBSERVE  THE  INTERIOR  OF  A  DE 

SERTED  HOUSE 126 

XIV  IN  WHICH  OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  WITH  THE 

DEVIL  TO  LOOK  AT  THE  HIGH  MOUNTAIN     .     .  135 
XV    WHEREIN  WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  AND 

CONSIDER  A  SERIOUS  QUESTION 152 

XVI    GRANT  ADAMS  Is  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  AND  MAR 
GARET  FENN  RECEIVES  A  SHOCK     ....  163 
XVII    A  CHAPTER  WHICH  INTRODUCES  SOME  POSSIBLE 

GODS         180 

XVIII    OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  WITH  THE  PRIM 
ROSE  HUNT   .     .     .    '•. '';  •".•' 187 

XIX    HEREIN  CAPTAIN  MORTON  FALLS  UNDER  SUSPI 
CION  AND  HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE     .  200 
XX    IN  WHICH  HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE  AND 

RISES  AGAIN  .     *. 209 

XXI    IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  A  FAT  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE 

RACK 219 

XXII    IN  WHICH  TOM  VAN  DORN  BECOMES  A  WAYFAR 
ING  MAN  ALSO 232 

XXIII  HERE  GRANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  His  INSIDES  .     .  241 

XXIV  IN   WHICH   THE   DEVIL   FORMALLY   TAKES   THE 

TWO  HlNDERMOST  AND   CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  IN 

His  LEDGER 252 

XXV    IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  Two  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CON 
TENTS  THEREOF 264 

XXVI    DR.   NESBIT    STARTS   ON   A   LONG   UPWARD   BUT 

DEVIOUS  JOURNEY 277 

XXVII    IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  SOMETHING  COME  INTO  THIS 

STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD    .      .  288 
XXVIII    WHEREIN  MORTY  SANDS  MAKES  A  FEW  SENSIBLE 

REMARKS  IN  PUBLIC 298 

XXIX    BEING  NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE     .     .  309 
XXX    GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHING  A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE 

RAISES  THE  VERY  DEVIL  IN  HARVEY     .      .      .  320 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEK  PAGE 

XXXI    IN  WHICH  JUDGE  VAN  DORN  MAKES  His  BRAGS 

AND  DR.  NESBIT  SEES  A  VISION 337 

XXXII  WHEREIN  VIOLET  HOGAN  TAKES  UP  AN  OLD 
TRADE  AND  MARGARET  VAN  DORN  SEEKS  A 
HIGHER  PLANE 350 

XXXIII  IN   WHICH   THE   ANGELS   SHAKE   A   FOOT   FOR 

HENRY  FENN     .     .     i.    .V/1  .     .     ..     .     .      .  365 

XXXIV  A  SHORT  CHAPTER,  YET  IN  IT  WE  EXAMINE  ONE 

CANVAS  HEAVEN,  ONE  REAL  HEAVEN,  AND  Two 
SNUG  LITTLE  HELLS     ....    V;  *l     .     .  379 

XXXV  THE  OLD  SPIDER  BEGINS  TO  DIVIDE  His  FLIES 
WITH  OTHERS  AND  GEORGE  BROTHERTON  Is 
PUZZLED  TWICE  IN  ONE  NIGHT 388 

XXXVI  A  LONG  CHAPTER  BUT  A  BUSY  ONE,  IN  WHICH 
KENYON  ADAMS  AND  His  MOTHER  HAVE  A 
STRANGE  MEETING,  AND  LILA  VAN  DORN  TAKES 
A  NIGHT  RIDE  .  .  .  .-•,'  .T  .  .  .  .403 

XXXVII    IN  WHICH  WE  WITNESS  A  CEREMONY  IN  THE 

TEMPLE  OP  LOVE 423 

XXXVIII    GRANT  ADAMS  VISITS  THE  SONS  OF  ESAU  .     .     .431 
XXXIX    BEING  No  CHAPTER  AT  ALL  BUT  AN  INTERMEZZO 

BEFORE  THE  LAST  MOVEMENT 441 

XL    HERE  WE  HAVE  THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  BE 
GINNING  TO  PREPARE  FOR  THE  LAST  CHAPTER  .  444 

XLI  HERE  WE  SEE  GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  His 

THIRD  AND  LAST  DEVIL 454 

XLII  A  CHAPTER  WHICH  Is  CONCERNED  LARGELY  WITH 
THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  "THE  FULL  STRENGTH  OF 
THE  COMPANY" 468 

XLIII  WHEREIN  WE  FIND  GRANT  ADAMS  CALLING  UPON 
KENYON'S  MOTHER,  AND  DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON 
Two  LOVERS 496 

XLIV  IN  WHICH  WE  SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN,  WITH 
GEORGE  BROTHERTON,  AND  IN  GENERAL  CON 
SIDER  THE  HABITANTS  OF  THE  KINGDOM  .  .  515 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XLV    IN  WHICH  LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNI 
VERSE  AND   TOM  VAN  DORN   WINS  ANOTHER 

VICTORY 527 

XL VI    WHEREIN  GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE  AND 

LIDA  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  HER  MIND    ....  543 
XLVII    IN  WHICH  GRANT  ADAMS  AND  LAURA  VAN  DORN 
TAKE  A   WALK   DOWN   MARKET   STREET   AND 
MRS.  NESBIT  ACQUIRES  A  LONG  LOST  GRANDSON- 

IN-LAW 561 

XL VIII    WHEREIN  WE  ERECT  A  HOUSE  BUII/T  UPON  A 

ROCK 575 

XLIX    How  MORTY  SANDS  TURNED  AWAY  SADLY  AND 

JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  .     .     .  582 
L    JUDGE  VAN  DORN  SINGS  SOME  MERRY  SONGS  AND 
THEY  TAKE  GRANT  ADAMS  BEHIND  A  WHITE 

DOOR 597 

LI    IN  WHICH  WE  END  AS  WE  BEGAN  AND  ALL  LIVE 

HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER 609 

JLII    NOT  EXACTLY  A  CHAPTER  BUT  RATHER  A  Q.  E.  D. 

OR  A  Hie  TABULA  DOCET  .  .  .  613 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

CHAPTER  I 

BEING   STAGE   DIRECTIONS,    AND   A    CAST    OF    CHARACTERS 

SUNSHINE  and  prairie  grass — well  in  the  foreground. 
For  the  background,  perhaps  a  thousand  miles  away  or 
more  than  half  a  decade  removed  in  time,  is  the  Amer 
ican  Civil  War.  In  the  blue  sky  a  meadow  lark 's  love  song, 
and  in  the  grass  the  boom  of  the  prairie  chicken's  wings  are 
the  only  sounds  that  break  the  primeval  silence,  excepting  the 
lisping  of  the  wind  which  dimples  the  broad  acres  of  tall  grass 
— thousand  upon  thousand  of  acres — that  stretch  northward 
for  miles.  To  the  left  the  prairie  grass  rises  upon  a  low  hill, 
belted  with  limestone  and  finally  merges  into  the  mirage  on 
the  knife  edge  of  the  far  horizon.  To  the  southward  on  the 
canvas  the  prairie  grass  is  broken  by  the  heavy  green  foliage 
above  a  sluggish  stream  that  writhes  and  twists  and  turns 
through  the  prairie,  which  rises  above  the  stream  and  meets 
another  limestone  belt  upon  which  the  waving  ripples  of 
the  unmowed  grass  wash  southward  to  the  eye's  reach. 

Enter  R.  U.  E.  a  four-ox  team  hauling  a  cart  laden  with 
a  printing  press  and  a  printer's  outfit;  following  that  are 
other  ox  teams  hauling  carts  laden  with  tents  and  bedding, 
household  goods,  lumber,  and  provisions.  A  four-horse  team 
hauling  merchandise,  and  a  span  of  mules  hitched  to  a  spring 
wagon  come  crashing  up  through  the  timber  by  the  stream. 
Men  and  women  are  walking  beside  the  oxen  or  the  teams  and 
are  riding  in  the  covered  wagons.  They  are  eagerly  seek 
ing  something.  It  is  the  equality  of  opportunity  that  is 
supposed  to  be  found  in  the  virgin  prairies  of  the  new  West. 
The  men  are  nearly  all  veterans  of  the  late  war,  for  the  most 
part  bearded  youngsters  in  their  twenties  or  early  thirties. 


2  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  women  are  their  fresh  young  wives.  As  the  procession 
halts  before  the  canvas,  the  men  and  women  begin  to  unpack 
the  wagons  and  to  line  out  on  each  side  of  an  imaginary 
street  in  the  prairie.  The  characters  are  discovered  as  fol 
lows: 

Amos  Adams,  a  red-bearded  youth  of  twenty-nine  and 
Mary  Sands,  his  wife.  They  are  printers  and  begin  unpack 
ing  and  setting  up  the  printing  material  in  a  tent. 

Dr.  James  Nesbit  and  Bedelia  Satterthwaite,  his  wife,  in 
the  tent  beside  the  Adamses. 

Captain  Ezra  Morton,  and  Euth  his  wife;  he  is  selling  a 
patent,  self-opening  gate. 

Ahab  Wright,  in  side  whiskers,  white  neck-tie,  flannel 
shirt  and  carefully  considered  trousers  tucked  in  shiny 
boots. 

Daniel  Sands,  Jane,  his  young  wife,  and  Mortimer,  her  in 
fant  stepson.  Daniel  owns  the  merchandise  in  the  wagon. 

Casper  Herdicker,  cobbler,  and  Brunhilde  Herdicker,  his 
wife. 

Herman  Miiller,  bearded,  coarse-featured,  noisy;  a  Penn 
sylvania  Dutchman,  his  faded,  rope-haired,  milk-eyed,  sickly 
wife  and  Margaret,  their  baby  daughter. 

Kyle  Perry,  owner  of  the  horses  and  spring  wagon. 

Dick  Bowman,  Ira  Dooley,  Thomas  Williams,  James  Mc- 
Pherson,  Dennis  Hogan,  a  boy,  laborers. 

As  other  characters  enter  during  the  early  pages  of  the 
story  they  shall  be  properly  introduced. 

As  the  actors  unload  their  wagons  the  spectators  may 
notice  above  their  heads  bright,  beautiful  and  evanescent 
forms  coming  and  going  in  and  out  of  being.  These  are  the 
visions  of  the  pioneers,  and  they  are  vastly  more  real  than 
the  men  and  women  themselves.  For  these  visions  are  the 
forces  that  form  the  human  crystal. 

Here  abideth  these  three :  sunshine  and  prairie  grass  and 
blue  sky,  cloud  laden.  These  for  ages  have  held  domain  and 
left  the  scene  unchanged.  When  lo — at  Upper  Middle  En 
trance, — enter  love!  And  love  witched  the  dreams  and  vi 
sions  of  those  who  toiled  in  the  sunshine  and  prairie  grass  un 
der  the  blue  sky  cloud  laden.  And  behold  what  they  visioned 
in  the  witchery  of  love,  took  form  and  spread  upon  the  prai- 


A  CAST  OF  CHARACTERS  3 

rie  in  wood  and  stone  and  iron,  and  became  a  part  of  the 
life  of  the  Nation.  Blind  men  in  other  lands,  in  other  times 
looked  at  the  Nation  and  saw  only  wood  and  stone  and  iron. 
Yet  the  wood  and  stone  and  iron  should  not  have  symbol 
ized  the  era  in  America.  Rather  should  the  dreams  and 
visions  of  the  pioneers,  of  those  who  toiled  under  the  sun 
shine  and  in  the  prairie  grass  have  symbolized  our  strength. 
For  half  a  century  later  when  the  world  was  agonizing  in  a 
death  grapple  with  the  mad  gods  of  a  crass  materialism, 
mankind  saw  rising  from  the  wood  and  stone  and  iron  that 
had  seemed  to  epitomize  this  Nation,  a  spirit  which  had  lain 
hidden  yet  dormant  in  the  Nation's  life — a  beautiful  spirit 
of  idealism  strong,  brave  and  humbly  wise ;  the  child  of  the 
dreams  and  visions  and  the  love  of  humanity  that  dwelled 
in  the  hearts  of  the  pioneers  of  that  earlier  time. 

But  this  is  looking  forward.  So  let  us  go  back  to  scene 
one,  act  one,  in  those  days  before  the  sunshine  was  shaded, 
the  prairie  grass  worn  off,  and  the  blue  sky  itself  was  so 
stained  and  changed  that  the  meadow-lark  was  mute ! 

And  now  we  are  ready  for  the  curtain :  and — music  please. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH   WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL   AND   HIS  LADY   FAIR  AND 
WHAT  HE  SAID  IN  HIS  HEART — THE  SAME  BEING  THE  THEME 
ND   THESIS  OF   THIS   STORY 

A  STORY  is  a  curious  thing,  that  grows  with  a  kind  of 
consciousness  of  its  own.  Time  was,  in  its  inverte 
brate  period  of  gestation  when  this  story  was  to  be 
Amos  AcUms  's  story.  It  was  to  be  the  story  of  one  who  saw 
great  visions  that  were  realized,  who  had  from  the  high  gods 
whispers  of  their  plans.  What  a  book  it  would  have  been 
if  Amos  and  Mary  could  have  written  it — the  story  of  dreams 
come  true.  But  alas,  the  high  gods  mocked  Amos  Adams. 
Mary's  clippings  from  the  Tribune — a  great  litter  of  them, 
furnished  certain  dates  and  incidents  for  the  story.  Often 
when  the  Tribune  was  fresh  from  the  press  Mary  and  Amos 
would  sit  together  in  the  printing  office  and  Mary  eaten  with 
pride  would  clip  from  the  damp  paper  the  grandiloquent 
effusions  of  Amos  that  seemed  to  fit  into  other  items  that  were 
to  remind  them  of  things  which  they  could  not  print  in  their 
newspaper  but  which  would  be  material  for  their  book. 
What  a  bundle  of  these  clippings  there  is !  And  there  was 
the  diary,  or  old-fashioned  Memory  Book  of  Mary  Adams. 
What  a  pile  of  neatly  folded  sheets  covered  with  Mary 
Adams '  handwriting  are  there  on  the  table  by  the  window ! 
What  memories  they  revive,  what  old  dead  joys  are  brought 
to  life,  what  faded  visions  are  repainted.  This  is  to  be  the 
Book — the  book  that  they  dreamed  of  in  their  youth — even 
before  little  Kenyon  was  born,  before  Jasper  was  born,  in 
deed  before  Grant  was  born. 

But  now  the  years  have  written  in  many  things  and  it  will 
not  be  even  their  story.  Indeed  as  life  wrote  upon  their 
hearts  its  mysterious  legend — the  legend  that  erased  many 
of  their  noble  dreams  and  put  iron  into  their  souls,  there 
is  evidence  in  what  they  wrote  that  they  thought  it  would  be 

4 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL          5 

Grant 's  story.  Most  parents  think  their  sons  will  be  heroes. 
But  their  boy  had  to  do  his  part  in  the  world's  rough  work 
and  before  the  end  the  clippings  and  the  notes  in  the  Memory 
Book  show  that  they  felt  that  a  hero  in  blue  overalls  would 
hardly  answer  for  their  Book.  Then  there  came  a  time  when 
Amos  alone  in  his  later  years  thought  that  it  might  be  Ken- 
yon 's  story ;  for  Kenyon  now  is  a  fiddler  of  fame,  and  fiddlers 
make  grand  heroes.  But  as  the  clippings  and  the  notes  show 
forth  still  another  story,  the  Book  that  was  to  be  their  book 
and  story,  may  not  be  one  man's  or  one  woman's  story.  It 
may  not  be  even  the  story  of  a  town ;  though  Harvey 's  story 
is  tragic  enough.  (Indeed  sometimes  it  has  seemed  that  the 
story  of  Harvey,  rising  in  a  generation  out  of  the  sunshine 
and  prairie  grass,  a  thousand  flued  hell,  was  to  be  the  story 
of  the  Book.)  But  now  Harvey  seems  to  be  only  a  sign  of 
the  times,  a  symptom  of  the  growth  of  the  human  soul.  So 
the  Book  must  tell  the  tale  of  a  time  and  a  place  where  men 
and  women  loved  and  strove  and  joyed  or  suffered  and  lost 
or  won  after  the  old,  old  fashion  of  our  race;  with  only 
such  new  girdles  and  borders  and  frills  in  the  record  of  their 
work  and  play  as  the  changing  skirts  of  passing  circumstance 
require.  The  Book  must  be  more  than  Amos  Adams 's  or  his 
son's  or  his  son's  son's  story  or  his  town's,  though  it  must 
be  all  of  these.  It  must  be  the  story  of  many  men  and  many 
women,  each  one  working  out  his  salvation  in  his  own  way 
and  all  the  threads  woven  into  the  divine  design,  carrying 
along  in  its  small  place  on  the  loom  the  inscrutable  pattern 
of  human  destiny.  But  most  of  all  it  should  be  the  story 
which  shall  explain  the  America  that  rose  when  her  great 
day  came — exultant,  triumphant  to  the  glorious  call  of  an 
ideal,  arose  from  sordid  things  environing  her  body  and  soul, 
and  consecrated  herself  without  stint  or  faltering  hand  to 
the  challenge  of  democracy. 

In  the  old  days — the  old  days  when  Amos  Adams  was 
young — he  printed  the  Harvey  Tribune  on  a  hand  press. 
Mary  spread  the  ink  upon  the  types;  he  pulled  the  great 
lever  that  impressed  each  sheet;  and  as  they  worked  they 
sang  about  the  coming  of  the  new  day.  As  a  soldier — a 
commissioned  officer  he  had  fought  in  the  great  Civil  War 
for  the  truth  that  should  make  men  free.  And  he  was  sure 


6  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

in  those  elder  days  that  the  new  day  was  just  dawning.  And 
Mary  was  sure  too;  so  the  readers  of  the  Tribune  were  as 
sured  that  the  dawn  was  at  hand.  The  editor  knew  that  there 
were  men  who  laughed  at  him  for  his  hopes.  But  he  and 
Mary,  his  wife,  only  laughed  at  men  who  were  so  blind  that 
they  could  not  see  the  dawn.  So  for  many  years  they  kept  on 
rallying  to  whatever  faith  or  banner  or  cause  seemed  surest 
in  its  promise  of  the  sunrise.  Green-backers,  Grangers, 
Knights  of  Labor,  Prohibitionists — these  two  crusaders  fol 
lowed  all  of  the  banners.  And  still  there  came  no  sunrise. 
Farmers'  Alliance,  Populism,  Free  Silver — Amos  marched 
with  each  cavalcade.  And  was  hopeful  in  its  defeat. 

And  thus  the  years  dragged  on  and  made  decades  and 
the  decades  marshaled  into  a  generation  that  became  an 
era,  and  a  city  rose  around  a  mature  man.  And  still  in  his 
little  office  on  a  rickety  side  street,  the  Tribune,  a  weekly 
paper  in  a  daily  town,  kept  pointing  to  the  sunrise;  and 
Amos  Adams,  editor  and  proprietor,  an  old  fool  with  the 
faith  of  youth,  for  many  years  had  a  book  to  write  and  a 
story  to  tell — a  story  that  was  never  told,  for  it  grew  beyond 
him. 

He  printed  the  first  edition  of  the  Tribune  in  his  tent  under 
an  elm  tree  in  a  vast,  unfenced  meadow  that  rose  from  the 
fringe  of  timber  that  shaded  the  Wahoo.  Volume  one,  num 
ber  one,  told  a  waiting  world  of  the  formation  of  the  town 
company  of  Harvey  with  Daniel  Sands  as  president.  It 
was  one  of  thousands  of  towns  founded  after  the  Civil 
"War — towns  that  were  bursting  like  mushrooms  through 
the  prairie  soil.  After  that  war  in  which  millions  of  men 
gave  their  youth  and  myriads  gave  their  lives  for  an 
ideal,  came  a  reaction.  And  in  the  decades  that  followed  the 
war,  men  gave  themselves  to  an  orgy  of  materialism.  Harvey 
was  a  part  of  that  orgy.  And  the  Ohio  crowd,  the  group  that 
came  from  Elyria — the  Sandses,  the  Adamses,  Joseph  Cal 
vin,  Ahab  Wright,  Kyle  Perry,  the  Kollanders  *  and  all  the 
rest  except  the  Nesbits — were  so  considerable  a  part  of  Har 
vey  in  the  beginning,  that  probably  they  were  as  guilty  as  the 
rest  of  the  country  in  the  crass  riot  of  greed  that  followed 

iThe  reader  may  be  interested  in  seeing  one  of  Mary  Adams's 
clippings  with  a  note  attached.  Here  is  one  concerning  Mrs.  John 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL          7 

the  war.  They  brought  Amos  Adams  to  Harvey  because 
he  was  a  printer  and  in  those  halcyon  days  all  printers  were 
supposed  to  be  able  to  write;  and  he  brought  Mary — but 
did  he  bring  Mary  ?  He  was  never  sure  whether  he  brought 
her  or  she  brought  him.  For  Mary  Sands — dear,  dear  Mary 
Sands — she  had  a  way  with  her.  She  was  not  Irish  for  noth 
ing,  God  bless  her. 

Amos  always  tried  to  be  fair  with  Daniel  Sands  because 
he  was  Mary's  brother;  even  though  there  was  a  time  after 
he  came  home  a  young  soldier  from  the  war  and  found  that 
Daniel  Sands  who  hired  a  substitute  and  stayed  at  home,  had 
won  Esther  Haley,  who  was  pledged  to  Amos, — a  time  when 
Amos  would  have  killed  Daniel  Sands.  That  passed,  Mary, 
Daniel's  sister,  came ;  and  for  years  Amos  Adams  bore  Daniel 
Sands  no  grudge.  What  has  all  his  money  done  for  Daniel. 
It  has  ground  the  joy  out  of  him — for  one  thing.  And  as  for 
Esther,  somewhere  about  Elyria,  Ohio,  the  grass  is  growing 
over  her  grave  and  for  forty  years  only  Mortimer,  her  son, 
with  her  eyes  and  mouth  and  hair,  was  left  in  the  world  to 
remind  Amos  of  the  days  when  he  was  stark  mad ;  and  Mary, 
dear,  dear,  Irish  Mary  Sands,  caught  his  heart  upon  the 
bounce  and  made  him  happy. 

So  let  us  say  that  Mary  brought  Amos  to  Harvey  with  the 
Ohio  crowd,  as  Daniel  Sands  and  his  followers  were  known. 
The  other  early  settlers  came  to  grow  up  with  the  country 
and  to  make  their  independent  fortunes;  but  Mary  and 
Amos  came  to  see  the  sunrise.  For  they  were  sure  that  men 
and  women  starting  in  a  new  world  having  found  equality  of 
opportunity,  would  not  make  this  new  world  sordid,  unfair 

Kollander.  The  clipping  from  the  Harvey  Tribune  of  June,  1871, 
reads : 

"  Mrs.  Rhoda  Byrd  Kollander  arrived  to-day  from  Elyria,  Ohio.  It 
is  her  first  visit  to  Harvey  and  she  was  greeted  by  her  husband,  Hon. 
John  Kollander,  Register  of  Deeds  of  Greeley  County,  with  a  handsome 
new  home  in  Elm  Street." 

Then  under  it  is  this  note: 

''Of  all  the  women  of  the  Elyria  settlers,  Rhoda  Kollander  would 
not  come  with  us  and  face  the  hardships  of  pioneer  life;  but  she 
made  John  come  out,  get  an  office  and  build  her  a  cabin  before  she 
would  come.  Rhoda  will  not  be  happy  as  an  angel  unless  they  have 
rocking  chairs  in  Heaven." 


8  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  cruel  as  the  older  world  was  around  them  in  those  days. 

Amos  and  Mary  took  up  their  homestead  just  south  of 
the  town  on  the  Wahoo,  and  started  the  Tribune,  and  Mary 
hoped  the  high  hopes  of  the  Irish  while  Amos  wrote  his  part 
of  the  news,  set  his  share  of  the  type,  ran  the  errands  for  the 
advertising  and  bragged  of  the  town  in  their  editorial  columns 
with  all  the  faith  of  an  Irishman  by  marriage. 

What  a  fairy  story  the  history  of  Harvey  would  be  if  it 
should  be  written  only  as  it  was.  For  one  could  even  begin 
it  once  upon  a  time.  Once  upon  a  time,  let  us  say,  there  was 
a  land  of  sunshine  and  prairie  grass.  And  then  great  genii 
came  and  set  in  little  white  houses  and  new  unpainted  barns, 
thumbed  in  faint  green  hedgerows  and  board  fences,  that 
checkered  in  the  fields  lying  green  or  brown  or  loam  black  by 
the  sluggish  streams  that  gouged  broad,  zigzag  furrows  in 
the  land.  And  upon  a  hill  that  overlooked  a  rock-bottomed 
stream  the  genii,  the  spirit  of  the  time,  sat  a  town.  It 
glistened  in  the  sunshine  and  when  the  town  was  over  a 
year  old,  it  was  so  newly  set  in,  that  its  great  stone  school- 
house  all  towered  and  tin-corniced,  beyond  the  scattered  out 
lying  residences,  rose  in  the  high,  untrodden  grass.  The  peo 
ple  of  Harvey  were  vastly  proud  of  that  schoolhouse.  The 
young  editor  and  his  wife  used  to  gaze  at  it  adoringly  as 
they  drove  to  and  from  the  office  morning  and  evening ;  and 
they  gilded  the  town  with  high  hopes.  For  then  they  were 
in  their  twenties.  The  population  of  Harvey  for  the  most 
part  those  first  years  was  in  its  twenties  also,  when  gilding  is 
cheap.  But  thank  Heaven  the  gilding  of  our  twenties  is 
lasting. 

It  was  into  this  gilded  world  that  Grant  Adams  was  born. 
Suckled  behind  the  press,  cradled  in  the  waste  basket,  tod 
dling  under  hurrying  feet,  Grant's  earliest  memories  were 
of  work — work  and  working  lovers,  and  their  gay  talk  as 
they  worked  wove  strange  fancies  in  his  little  mind. 

It  was  in  those  days  that  Amos  Adams  and  his  wife,  con 
sidering  the  mystery  of  death,  tried  to  peer  behind  the  veil. 
For  Amos  tables  tipped,  slates  wrote,  philosophers,  statesmen 
and  conquerors  flocked  in  with  grotesque  advice,  and  all 
those  curious  phenomena  that  come  from  the  activities  of 
the  abnormal  mind,  appeared  and  astounded  the  visionaries 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL          9 

as  they  went  about  their  daily  work.  The  boy  Grant  used 
to  sit,  a  wide-eyed,  freckled,  sun-browned  little  creature, 
running  his  skinny  little  hands  through  his  red  hair,  and 
wondering  about  the  unsolvable  problems  of  life  and  death. 

But  soon  the  problems  of  a  material  world  came  in  upon 
Grant  as  the  child  became  a  boy :  problems  of  the  wood  and 
field,  problems  of  the  constantly  growing  herd  at  play  in 
water,  in  snow,  on  the  ice  and  in  the  prairie ;  and  then  came 
the  more  serious  problems  of  the  wood  box,  the  stable  and 
farm.  Thus  he  grew  strong  of  limb,  quick  of  hand,  firm  of 
foot  and  sure  of  mind.  And  someway  as  he  grew  from 
childhood  into  boyhood,  getting  hold  of  his  faculties — finding 
himself  physically,  so  Harvey  seemed  to  grow  with  him. 
All  over  the  town  where  men  needed  money  Daniel  Sands 's 
mortgages  were  fastened — not  heavily  (nothing  was  heavy 
in  that  day  of  the  town's  glorious  youth)  but  surely.  Dr. 
Nesbit's  gay  ruthless  politics,  John  Hollander's  patriotism, 
leading  always  to  the  court  house  and  its  emoluments,  Cap 
tain  Morton's  inventions  that  never  materialized,  the  ever 
coming  sunrise  of  the  Adams — all  these  things  became  defi 
nitely  a  part  of  the  changeless  universe  of  Harvey  as  Grant's 
growing  faculties  became  part  of  his  consciousness. 

And  here  is  a  mystery :  the  formation  of  the  social  crystal. 
In  that  crystal  the  outer  facets  and  the  inner  fell  into  shape 
— the  Nesbits,  the  Hollanders,  the  Adamses,  the  Calvins,  the 
Mortons,  and  the  Sandses,  falling  into  one  group;  and  the 
Williamses,  the  Hogans,  the  Bowmans,  the  McPhersons,  the 
Dooleys  and  Casper  Herdicker  falling  into  another  group. 
The  hill  separated  from  the  valley.  The  separation  was  not 
a  matter  of  moral  sense ;  for  John  Kollander  and  Dan  Sands 
and  Joseph  Calvin  touched  zero  in  moral  intelligence;  and 
it  could  not  have  been  business  sense,  for  Captain  Morton  for 
all  his  dreams  was  a  child  with  a  dollar,  and  Dr.  Nesbit  never 
was  out  of  debt  a  day  in  his  life;  without  his  salary  from 
tax-payers  John  Kollander  would  have  been  a  charge  on 
the  county.  In  the  matter  of  industry  Daniel  Sands  was 
a  marvel,  but  Jamie  McPherson  toiling  all  day  used  to  come 
home  and  start  up  his  well  drill  and  its  clatter  could  be 
lieard  far  into  the  night,  and  often  he  started  it  hours  before 
dawn.  Nor  could  aspirations  and  visions  have  furnished 


10  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  line  of  cleavage ;  for  no  one  could  have  hopes  so  high  for 
Harvey  as  Jamie,  who  sank  his  drill  far  into  the  earth,  put 
his  whole  life,  every  penny  of  his  earnings  and  all  his  strength 
into  the  dream  that  some  day  he  would  bring  coal  or  oil  or  gas 
to  Harvey  and  make  it  a  great  city.  Yet  when  he  found  the 
precious  vein,  thick  and  rich  and  easy  to  mine,  Daniel  Sands 
and  Joseph  Calvin  took  his  claim  from  him  by  chicanery  as 
easily  as  they  would  have  robbed  a  blind  man  of  a  penny, 
and  Jamie  went  to  work  in  the  mines  for  Daniel  Sands 
grumbling  but  faithful.  Williams  and  Dooley  and  Hogan 
and  llerdicker  bent  at  their  daily  tasks  in  those  first  years, 
each  feeling  that  the  next  day  or  the  next  month  or  at  most 
the  next  year  his  everlasting  fortune  would  be  made.  And 
Dick  Bowman,  cohort  of.  Dr.  Nesbit,  many  a  time  and 
oft  would  wash  up,  put  on  a  clean  suit,  and  go  out  and 
round  up  the  voters  in  the  Valley  for  the  Doctor's  cause 
and  scorn  his  task  with  a  hissing ;  for  Dick  read  Karl  Marx 
and  dreamed  of  the  day  of  the  revolution.  Yet  he  dwelled 
with  the  sons  of  Essua,  who  as  they  toiled  murmured  about 
their  stolen  birthright.  When  a  decade  had  passed  in 
Harvey  the  social  crystal  was  firm;  the  hill  and  the  valley 
were  cast  into  the  solid  rock  of  things  as  they  are.  No  one 
could  say  why ;  it  was  a  mystery.  It  is  still  a  mystery.  As 
society  forms  and  reforms,  its  cleavages  follow  unknown  lines. 
It  was  on  a  day  in  June — late  in  the  morning,  after  Grant 
and  Nathan  Perry — son  of  the  stuttering  Kyle  of  that  name, 
had  come  from  a  cool  hour  in  the  quiet  pool  down  on  the 
Wahoo  and  little  Grant,  waiting  like  a  hungry  pup  for 
his  lunch,  that  was  tempting  him  in  the  basket  under  the 
typerack,  was  counting  the  moments  and  vaguely  speculating 
as  to  what  minutes  were — when  he  looked  up  from  the  floor 
and  saw  what  seemed  to  him  a  visitor  from  another  world.1 

i  Let  us  read  Mary  Adams's  clipping  and  note  on  the  arrival  of 
young  Thomas  Van  Dorn  in  Harvey.  The  clipping  which  is  from  the 
local  page  of  the  paper  reads: 

"Thomas  Van  Dorn,  son  of  the  late  General  Nicholas  Van  Dorn  of 
Schenectady,  New  York,  has  located  in  Harvey  for  the  practice  of 
law  and  his  advertising  card  appears  elsewhere.  Mr.  Van  Dorn  is 
a  Yale  man  and  a  law  graduate  of  that  school  as  well  as  an  alumnus 
of  the  college.  As  a  youth  with  his  father  young  Thomas  stopped  in 
Harvey  the  day  the  town  was  founded.  He  was  a  member  of  the 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL        11 

The  creature  was  talking  to  Amos  Adams  sitting  at  the  desk ; 
and  Amos  was  more  or  less  impressed  with  the  visitor's 
splendor.  He  wore  exceedingly  tight  trousers — checked 
trousers,  and  a  coat  cut  grandly  and  extravagantly  in  its 
fullness,  a  high  wing  collar,  and  a  soup  dish  hat.  He  was 
such  a  figure  as  the  comic  papers  of  the  day  were  featuring 
as  the  exquisite  young  man  of  the  period. 

Youth  was  in  his  countenance  and  lighted  his  black  eyes. 
His  oval,  finely  featured  face,  his  blemishless  olive  skin,  his 
strong  jaw  and  his  high,  beautiful  forehead,  over  which  a 
black  wing  of  hair  hung  carelessly,  gave  him  a  distinction 
that  brought  even  the  child's  eyes  to  him.  He  was  smiling 
pleasantly  as  he  said, 

"I'm  Thomas  Van  Dorn — Mr.  Adams,  I  believe?"  he 
asked,  and  added  as  he  fastened  his  fresh  young  eyes  upon  the 
editor's,  "you.  scarcely  will  remember  me — but  you  doubt 
less  remember  the  day  when  father's  hunting  party  passed 
through  town?  Well — I've  come  to  grow  up  with  the  coun 
try." 

The  editor  rose,  roughed  his  short,  sandy  beard  and 
greeted  the  youth  pleasantly.  "Mr.  Daniel  Sands  sent  me 

hunting  party  organized  by  Wild  Bill  which  under  General  Van  Dorn's 
patronage  escorted  the  Russian  Grand  Duke  Alexis  over  this  part  of 
the  state  after  buffalo  and  wild  game.  Mr.  Thomas  Van  Dorn  remem 
bers  the  visit  well,  and  old  settlers  will  recall  the  fact  that  Daniel 
Sands  that  day  sold  for  $100  in  gold  to  the  General  the  plot  now  known 
as  Van  Dorn's  addition  to  Harvey.  Mr.  Thomas  Van  Dorn  still  has 
the  deed  to  the  plot  and  will  soon  put  the  lots  on  the  market.  He  was 
a  pleasant  caller  at  the  Tribune  office  this  week.  Come  again,  say 
we." 

And  upon  a  paper  whereon  the  clipping  is  pasted  is  this  in  Mary 
Adams's  hand: 

"The  famous  Van  Dorn  baby!  How  the  years  have  flown  since  the 
scandal  of  his  mother's  elopement  and  his  father's  duel  with  Sir 
Charles  shook  two  continents.  What  an  old  rake  the  General  was. 
And  the  boy's  mother  after  two  other  marriages  and  a  sad  period  on 
the  variety  stage  died  alone  in  penury!  And  Amos  says  that  the 
General  was  so  insolent  to  his  men  in  the  war,  that  he  dared  not 
go  into  action  with  them  for  fear  they  would  shoot  him  in  the  back. 
Yet  the  boy  is  as  lovely  and  gentle  a  creature  as  one  could  ask  to 
meet.  This  is  as  it  should  be." 


12  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

to  you,  Mr.  Adams — to  print  a  professional  card  in  your 
paper,"  said  the  young  man.  He  pronounced  them  "cahd" 
and  "papuh"  and  smiled  brightly  as  his  quick  eyes  told 
him  that  the  editor  was  conscious  of  his  eastern  accent. 
While  they  were  talking  business,  locating  the  position  of 
the  card  in  the  newspaper,  the  editor  noticed  that  the  young 
man's  eyes  kept  wandering  to  Mary  Adams,  typesetting 
across  the  room.  She  was  a  comely  woman  just  in  her  thir 
ties  and  Amos  Adams  finally  introduced  her.  When  he  went 
out  the  Adamses  talked  him  over  and  agreed  that  he  was  an 
addition  to  the  town. 

Within  a  month  he  had  formed  a  partnership  with  Joseph 
Calvin,  the  town's  eldest  lawyer;  arid  young  Henry  Fenu, 
who  had  been  trying  for  a  year  to  buy  a  partnership  with  Cal 
vin,  was  left  to  go  it  alone.  So  Henry  Fenn  contented  him 
self  with  forming  a  social  partnership  with  his  young  rival. 
And  when  the  respectable  Joseph  Calvin  was  at  home  or  con 
sidering  the  affairs  of  the  Methodist  Sunday  School  of  which 
he  was  superintendent,  young  Mr.  Fenn  and  young  Mr. 
Van  Dorn  were  rambling  at  large  over  the  town  and  the  adja 
cent  prairie,  seeking  such  diversion  as  young  men  in  their 
exceedingly  early  twenties  delight  in:  Mr.  Riley's  saloon,  the 
waters  of  the  Wahoo,  by  moonlight,  the  melliferous  strains  of 
" Larboard  watch,"  the  shot  gun,  the  quail  and  the  prairie 
chicken,  the  quarterhorse,  and  the  jackpot,  the  cocktail,  the 
Indian  pony,  the  election,  the  footrace,  the  baseball  team, 
the  Sunday  School  picnic,  the  Fourth  of  July  celebration, 
the  dining  room  girls  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  the  cross  country 
circus  and  the  trial  of  the  occasional  line  fence  murder 
case — all  were  divertissements  that  engaged  their  passing 
young  attention. 

If  ever  the  world  was  an  oyster  for  a  youth  the  world  of 
Harvey  and  the  fullness  thereof  was  an  oyster  to  Thomas 
Van  Dorn.  He  had  all  that  the  crude  western  community 
cherished:  the  prestige  of  money,  family,  education,  and 
that  indefinable  grace  and  courtesy  of  body  and  soul  that 
we  call  charm.  And  Harvey  people  seemed  to  be  made  for 
him.  He  liked  their  candor,  their  strength,  their  crass  ma 
terialism,  their  bray  and  bluster,  their  vain  protests  of  de 
mocracy  and  their  unconscious  regard  for  his  caste  and  cul- 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL        13 

ture.  So  whatever  there  was  of  egoism  in  his  nature  grew 
unchecked  by  Harvey.  He  was  the  young  lord  of  the  manor. 
However  Harvey  might  hoot  at  his  hat  and  gibe  at  his  elided 
E  's  and  mock  his  rather  elaborate  manners  behind  his  back ; 
nevertheless  he  had  his  way  with  the  town  and  he  knew  that 
he  was  the  master.  While  those  about  him  worked  and  wor 
ried  Tom  Van  Dorn  had  but  to  rub  lightly  his  lamp  and  the 
slave  appeared  and  served  him.  Naturally  a  young  man  of 
his  conspicuous  talents  in  his  exceedingly  early  twenties 
who  has  the  vast  misfortune  to  have  a  lamp  of  Aladdin  to 
rub,  asks  genii  first  of  all  for  girls  and  girls  and  more  girls. 
Then  incidentally  he  asks  for  business  and  perhaps  for  poli 
tics  and  may  be  as  an  afterthought  and  for  his  own  comfort 
he  may  pray  for  the  good  will  of  his  fellows.  Tom  Van  Dorn 
became  known  in  the  vernacular  as  a  "ladies  man."  It  did 
not  hurt  his  reputation  as  a  lawyer,  for  he  was  young  and 
youth  is  supposed  to  have  its  follies  so  long  as  its  follies 
are  mere  follies.  No  one  in  that  day  hinted  that  Tom  Van 
Dorn  was  anything  more  dangerous  than  a  butterfly.  So 
he  flitted  from  girl  to  girl,  from  love  affair  to  love  affair, 
from  heart  to  heart  in  his  gay  clothes  with  his  gay  manners 
and  his  merry  face.  And  men  smiled  and  women  and  girls 
whispered  and  boys  hooted  and  all  the  world  gave  the  young 
lord  his  way.  But  when  he  included  the  dining  room  girls 
at  the  Palace  Hotel  in  his  list  of  conquests,  Dr.  Nesbit 
began  squinting  seriously  at  the  youth  and,  late  at  night 
coming  from  his  professional  visits,  when  the  doctor  passed 
the  young  fellow  returning  from  some  humble  home  down 
near  the  river,  the  Doctor  would  pipe  out  in  the  night,  ' '  Tut, 
tut,  Tom — this  is  no  place  for  you." 

But  the  Doctor  was  too  busy  with  his  own  affairs  to  assume 
the  guardianship  of  Tom  Van  Dorn.  As  Mayor  of  Harvey 
the  Doctor  made  the  young  man  city  attorney,  thereby  bind 
ing  the  youth  to  the  Mayor  in  the  feudal  system  of  politics 
and  attaching  all  the  prestige  and  charm  and  talent  of  the 
boy  to  the  Doctor's  organization. 

For  Dr.  Nesbit  in  his  blithe  and  cock-sure  youth  was  born 
to  politics  as  the  sparks  fly  upward.  Men  looked  to  him 
for  leadership  and  he  blandly  demanded  that  they  follow 
him.  He  was  every  man's  friend.  He  knew  the  whole 


14  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

county  by  its  first  name.  The  men,  the  women,  the  chil 
dren,  the  dogs,  the  horses  knew  him  and  he  knew  and  loved 
them  all.  But  in  return  for  his  affection  he  expected  loyalty. 
He  was  a  jealous  leader  who  divided  no  honors.  Seven 
months  in  the  year  he  wore  white  linen  clothes  and  his  white 
clad  figure  bustling  through  a  crowd  on  Market  Street  on 
Saturday  or  elbowing  its  way  through  a  throng  at  any  formal 
gathering,  or  jogging  through  the  night  behind  his  sorrel 
mare  or  moving  like  a  pink-faced  cupid,  turned  Nemesis  in 
a  coanty  convention,  made  him  a  marked  man  in  the  com 
munity.  But  what  was  more  important,  his  distinction  had 
a  certain  cheeriness  about  it.  And  his  cheeriness  was  vocal 
ized  in  a  high,  piping,  falsetto  voice,  generally  gay  and  nearly 
always  soft  and  kindly.  It  expressed  a  kind  of  incarnate 
good  nature  that  disarmed  enmity  and  drew  men  to  him 
instinctively.  And  underneath  his  amicability  was  iron. 
Hence  men  came  to  him  in  trouble  and  he  healed  their  ills, 
cured  their  souls,  went  on  their  notes  and  took  their  hearts 
for  his  own,  which  carried  their  votes  for  his  uses.  So  he  be 
came  calif  of  Harvey. 

Even  deaf  John  Kollander  who  had  political  aspirations  of 
a  high  order  learned  early  that  his  road  to  glory  led  through 
obedience  to  the  Doctor.  So  John  went  about  the  county 
demanding  that  the  men  who  had  saved  the  union  should 
govern  it  and  declaring  that  the  flag  of  his  country  should 
not  be  trailed  in  the  dust  by  vandal  hands — meaning  of 
course  by  "vandal  hands"  the  opposition  candidate  for  regis 
ter  of  deeds  or  county  clerk  or  for  whatever  county  office 
John  was  asking  at  that  election;  and  at  the  convention 
John's  old  army  friends  voted  for  the  Doctor's  slate  and  in 
the  election  they  supported  the  Doctor's  ticket.  But  tall, 
deaf  John  Kollander  in  his  blue  army  clothes  with  their  brass 
buttons  and  his  campaign  hat,  always  cut  loose  from  Dr. 
Nesbit's  paternal  care  after  every  election.  For  the  Doctor, 
after  he  had  tucked  John  away  in  a  county  office,  asked  only 
to  appoint  John's  deputies  and  that  Mrs.  Kollander  keep  out 
of  the  Doctor's  office  and  away  from  his  house. 

"I  have  no  objections,"  the  Doctor  would  chirrup  at 
the  ample,  good-natured  Ehoda  Kollander  who  would  haunt 
him  during  John's  periods  of  political  molting,  pretending 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL        15 

to  advise  with  the  Doctor  on  her  husband's  political  status, 
' '  to  your  society  from  May  until  November  every  two  years, 
Rhodj,  but  that's  enough.  Now  go  home!  Go  home, 
woman, ' '  he  commanded,  '  *  and  look  after  your  growing  fam 
ily." 

And  Rhoda  Kollander  would  laugh  amiably  in  telling  it 
and  say,  "Now  I  suppose  some  women  would  get  mad,  but 
law,  I  know  Doc  Jim !  He  doesn 't  mean  a  thing ! "  Where 
upon  she  would  settle  down  where  she  was  stopping  until 
meal  time  and  reluctantly  remain  to  eat.  As  she  settled 
comfortably  at  the  table  she  would  laugh  easily  and  exclaim : 
"Now  isn't  it  funny!  I  don't  know  what  John  and  the 
boys  will  have.  There  isn't  a  thing  in  the  house.  But, 
law,  I  suppose  they  can  get  along  without  me  once  in  a  life 
time."  Then  she  would  laugh  and  eat  heartily  and  sit 
around  until  the  crisis  at  home  had  passed. 

But  the  neighbors  knew  that  John  Kollander  was  open 
ing  a  can  of  something,  gathering  the  boys  around  him 
and  as  they  ate,  recounting  the  hardships  of  army  life  to  add 
spice  to  an  otherwise  stale  and  unprofitable  meal.  Afterward 
probably  he  would  go  to  some  gathering  of  his  comrades  and 
there  fight,  bleed  and  die  for  his  country.  For  he  was  an 
incorrigible  patriot.  The  old  flag,  his  country's  honor,  and 
the  preservation  of  the  union  were  themes  that  never  tired 
him.  He  organized  his  fellow  veterans  in  the  town  and 
county  and  helped  to  organize  them  in  the  state  and  was 
forever  going  to  other  towns  to  attend  eamp  fires  and  rallies 
and  bean  dinners  and  reunions  where  he  spoke  with  zeal  and 
some  eloquence  about  the  danger  of  turning  the  country  over 
to  the  southern  brigadiers.  He  had  a  set  speech  which  was 
greatlj  admired  at  the  rallies  and  in  this  speech  it  was  his 
wont  to  reach  for  one  of  the  many  flags  that  always  adorned 
the  platform  on  such  occasions,  tear  it  from  its  hanging  and 
wrapping  it  proudly  about  his  gaunt  figure,  recite  a  dia 
logue  between  himself  and  the  angel  Gabriel,  the  burden  of 
which  was  that  so  long  as  John  Kollander  had  that  flag 
about  him  at  the  resurrection,  no  question  would  be  asked 
at  Hearen's  gate  of  one  of  its  defenders.  Now  the  fact  was 
that  John  Kollander  was  sent  to  the  war  of  the  rebellion  a 
few  weeks  before  the  surrender  of  Lee  at  Appomattox,  as 


16  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Daniel  Sands 's  paid  substitute  and  his  deafness  was  caused 
by  tiring-  an  anvil  at  the  peace  jubilee  in  Cincinnati,  the 
powder  on  the  anvil  being  the  only  powder  John  Kollander 
ever  had  snielled.  But  his  descriptions  of  battle  and  the 
hardships  and  horrors  of  war  were  none  the  less  vivid  and 
harrowing  because  he  had  never  crossed  the  Ohio. 

Those  were  the  days  when  the  Tribune  was  at  its  zenith — 
the  days  when  Jared  Thurston  was  employed  as  its  fore 
man  and  Lizzie  Coulter,  pretty,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  Lizzie 
Coulter  helped  Mary  Adams  to  set  the  type.  It  was  not  a 
long  Day  of  Triumph,  but  while  it  lasted  Mary  and  Ainos 
made  the  most  of  it  and  spoke  in  a  grand  way  about  "the 
office  force."  They  even  had  vague  notions  of  starting  a 
daily  and  many  a  night  Jared  and  Amos  pored  over  the 
type  samples  in  the  advertising  in  Rounds  Printer's  Cabinet, 
picked  out  the  type  they  would  need  and  the  other  equip 
ment  necessary  for  the  new  venture.  But  it  was  only  a 
dream.  For  gradually  Jared  found  Lizzie's  eyes  and  he 
found  more  to  interest  him  there  than  in  the  type-book,  and 
so  the  dream  faded  and  was  gone. 

Also  as  Lizzie's  eyes  began  to  glow  in  his  sky,  Jared  let 
his  interest  lag  in  the  talk  at  Casper  Herdicker's  shoe  shop, 
though  it  was  tall  talk,  and  Jared  sitting  on  a  keg  in  a 
corner  with  little  Tom  Williams,  the  stone  mason,  beside 
him  on  a  box,  and  Denny  Hogan  near  him  on  a  vacant  work 
bench  and  Ira  Dooley  on  the  window  ledge  would  wrangle 
until  bed  time  many  a  night  as  Dick  Bowman,  wagging  a 
warlike  head,  and  Casper  pegging  away  at  his  shoes,  tore 
society  into  shreds,  smashed  idols  and  overturned  civiliza 
tion.  Up  to  this  point  there  was  complete  agreement  be 
tween  the  iconoclasts.  They  went  so  far  together  that  they 
had  no  quarrel  about  the  route  of  the  mob  down  Fifth 
Avenue  in  New  York — which  Dick  knew  only  as  a  legend  but 
which  Casper  had  seen;  and  they  were  one  in  the  belief 
that  Dan  Sands 's  bank  and  Wright  &  Perry's  store  should 
fall  early  in  the  sack  of  Market  Street.  But  when  it  came  to 
reconstructing  society  there  was  a  clash  that  mounted  to  a 
cataclysm.  For  Dick,  shaking  his  head  violently,  demanded 
a  government  that  should  regulate  everything  and  Casper 
waving  a  vicious,  flat-nosed  hammer,  battered  down  all  gov- 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL        17 

eminent  and  stood  for  the  untrammeled  and  unhampered 
liberty  of  the  individual.  Night  after  night  they  looted  civ 
ilization  and  stained  the  sky  with  their  fires  and  the  ground 
with  the  oppressor's  blood,  only  to  sink  their  claws  and 
tusks  into  each  other's  vitals  in  mortal  combat  over  the 
spoil. 

About  the  time  that  Jared  Thurston  foui  !  the  new  stars 
that  had  ranged  across  his  ken,  Tom  Van  JUorn,  the  hand 
some,  cheerful,  exquisite  Tom  Van  Dorn  began  to  find  the 
debates  between  Casper  and  Dick  Bowman  diverting.  So 
many  a  night  when  the  society  of  the  softer  sex  was  either 
cloying  or  inconvenient,  the  dapper  young  fellow  would  come 
dragging  Henry  Fenn  with  him,  to  sit  on  a  rickety  chair 
and  observe  the  progress  of  the  revolution  and  to  enjoy 
the  carnage  that  always  followed  the  downfall  of  the  es 
tablished  order.  He  used  to  sit  beside  Jared  Thurston  who, 
being  a  printer,  was  supposed  to  belong  to  the  more  intel 
lectual  of  the  crafts  and  hence  more  appreciative  than  Wil 
liams  or  Dooley  or  Hogan,  of  his  young  lordship's  point  of 
view ;  and  as  the  debate  waxed  warm,  Tom  was  wont  to  pinch 
the  lean  leg  of  Mr.  Thurston  in  lieu  of  the  winks  Tom  dared 
not  venture.  But  a  time  came  when  Jared  Thurston  sat 
apart  from  Van  Dorn  and  stared  coldly  at  him.  And  as  Tom 
and  Henry  Fenn  walked  out  of  the  human  slaughter  house 
that  Dick  and  Casper  had  made  after  a  particularly  bloody 
revolt  against  the  capitalistic  system,  Henry  Fenn  walked  for 
a  time  beside  his  friend  looking  silently  at  the  earth  while 
Van  Dorn  mooned  and  star-gazed  with  wordy  delight.  Henry 
lifted  his  face,  looked  at  Tom  with  great,  bright,  sympathetic 
eyes  and  cut  in: 

"Tom — why  are  you  playing  with  Lizzie  Coulter?  She  is 
not  in  your  class  or  of  your  kind.  What's  your  idea  in 
cutting  in  between  Jared  and  her;  you'll  only  make  trou 
ble." 

A  smile,  a  gay,  happy,  and  withal  a  seductive  smile  lit  up 
the  handsome,  oval  face  of  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn.  The  smile 
became  a  laugh,  a  quiet,  insinuating,  good-natured,  light- 
hearted  laugh.  As  he  laughed  he  replied : 

4( Lizzie's  all  right,  Henry — don't  worry  about  Lizzie." 
Again  he  laughed  a  gentle,  deep-voiced  chuckle,  and  held 


18  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

up  his  hand  in  the  moonlight.  A  brown  scab  was  lined 
across  the  back  of  the  hand  and  as  Henry  saw  it  Van  Dorn 
spoke:  ''Present  from  Lizzie — little  pussy."  Again  he 
chuckled  and  added,  "Nearly  made  the  horse  run  away,  too. 
Anyway, ' '  he  laughed  pleasantly,  *  *  when  I  left  her  she  prom 
ised  to  go  again." 

But  Henry  Fenn  returned  to  his  point :  ' '  Tom, ' '  he  cried, 
"don't  play  with  Lizzie — she's  not  your  kind,  arid  it's  break 
ing  Jared's  heart.  Can't  you  see  what  you're  doing? 
You'll  go  down  there  a  dozen  times,  make  love  to  her,  hold 
her  hand  and  kiss  her  and  go  away  and  pick  up  another 
girl.  But  she's  the  whole  world  and  Heaven  to  boot  for 
Jared.  She's  his  one  little  ewe  lamb,  Tom.  And  she'd  be 
happy  with  Jared  if — " 

"If  she  wants  Jared  she  can  have  him.  I'm  not  holding 
her, ' '  interrupted  the  youth.  ' '  And  anyway, ' '  he  exclaimed, 
"what  do  I  owe  to  Jared  and  what  do  I  owe  to  her  or  to 
any  one  but  myself!" 

Fenn  did  not  answer  at  once.  At  length  he  broke  the  si 
lence.  "Well,  you  heard  what  I  said  and  I  didn't  smile 
when  I  said  it." 

But  Tom  Van  Dorn  did  smile  as  he  answered,  a  smile  of 
such  sweetness,  and  of  such  winning  grace  that  it  sugar- 
coated  his  words. 

"Henry,"  he  cried  in  his  gay,  deep  voice  with  the  exuber 
ance  of  youth  ringing  in  it,  "the  world  is  mine.  You  know 
what  I  think  about  this  whole  business.  If  Lizzie  doesn't 
want  me  to  bother  her  she  mustn't  have  such  eyes  and  such 
hair  and  such  lips.  In  this  life  I  shall  take  what  I  find  that 
I  can  get.  I'm  not  going  to  be  meek  nor  humble  nor  patient, 
nor  forgiving  and  forbearing  and  I'm  not  going  to  refrain 
from  a  mutton  roast  because  some  one  has  a  ewe  lamb." 

He  put  a  warm,  kind,  brotherly  hand  on  the  shoulder  be 
side  him.  "Shocked,  aren't  you,  Henry?"  he  asked,  laugh 
ing. 

Henry  Fenn  looked  up  with  a  gentle,  glowing  smile  on  his 
rather  dull  face  and  returned,  "No,  Tom.  Maybe  you  can 
make  it  go,  but  I  couldn't." 

' '  Well,  I  can.  Watch  me, ' '  he  cried  arrogantly.  ' '  Henry, 
I  want  the  advantage  of  my  strength  in  this  world  and  I'm 


IN  WHICH  WE  INTRODUCE  THE  FOOL        19 

not  going  to  go  puling  around,  golden-ruling  and  bending 
my  back  to  give  the  weak  and  worthless  a  ride.  Let  'em 
walk.  Let  'em  fall.  Let  'em  rot  for  all  I  care.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  their  God.  There  is  no  God.  There  is  nature. 
Up  to  the  place  where  man  puts  on  trousers  it's  a  battle  of 
thews  and  teeth.  And  nature  never  intended  pants  to  mark 
the  line  where  she  changes  the  order  of  things.  And  the 
servile,  weakling,  groveling,  charitable,  cowardly  philosophy 
of  Christ — it  doesn't  fool  me,  Henry.  I'm  a  pagan  and  I 
want  the  advantage  of  all  the  force,  all  the  power,  that  nature 
gave  me,  to  live  life  as  a  dangerous,  exhilarating  experience. 
I  shall  live  life  to  the  full — live  it  hard — live  it  beautifully, 
but  live  it !  live  it !  Henry,  live  it  like  a  gentleman  arid  not 
like  an  understrapper  and  bootlicker !  I  intend  to  command, 
not  obey !  Rule,  not  serve !  I  shall  take  and  not  give — not 
give  save  as  it  pleases  me  to  have  my  hand  licked  now  arid 
then!  As  for  Lizzie  and  Jared,"  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn 
waved  a  gay  hand,  "let  them  look  out  for  themselves. 
They  're  not  my  worries ! ' ' 

"But,  Tom,"  remonstrated  Henry  as  he  looked  at  the 
ground,  "it's  nothing  to  me  of  course,  but  Lizzie — " 

"Ah,  Henry,"  Van  Dorn  laughed  gayly,  "I'm  not  going 
to  hurt  Lizzie.  She's  good  fun:  that's  all.  And  now  look 
here,  Mr.  Preacher — you  come  moralizing  around  me  about 
what  I'm  doing  to  some  one  else,  which  after  all  is  not  my 
business  but  hers ;  and  I  'm  right  here  to  tell  you,  what  you  're 
doing  to  yourself,  and  that's  your  business  and  no  one's  else. 
You're  drinking  too  much.  People  are  talking  about  it. 
Quit  it !  Whisky  never  won  a  jury.  In  the  Morse  case  you 
loaded  up  for  your  speech  and  I  beat  you  because  in  all  your 
agonizing  about  the  wrong  to  old  man  Miiller  and  his  '  pretty 
brown-eyed  daughter'  as  you  called  her,  you  forgot  slick  and 
clean  the  flaw  in  Morse 's  deed. ' ' 

"I  suppose  you're  right,  Tom.  But  I  was  feeling  kind 
of  off  that  day,  mother 'd  been  sick  the  night  before  and — " 

' '  And  so  you  filled  up  with  a  lot  of  bad  whisky  and  driv 
eled  and  wept  and  stumbled  through  the  case  and  I  beat  you. 
I  tell  you,  Henry,  I  keep  myself  fit.  I  have  no  time  to  look 
after  others.  My  job  is  myself  and  you'll  find  that  unless  you 
look  after  yourself  no  one  else  will,  at  least  whisky  won't.  If 


20  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

I  find  girling  is  beating  me  in  my  law  cases  I  quit  girling. 
But  it  doesn't.  Lord,  man,  the  more  I  know  of  human  na 
ture,  the  more  I  pick  over  the  souls  of  these  country  girls  and 
blow  open  the  petals  of  their  pretty  hearts,  the  wiser  1  am. ' ' 

"But  the  girls,  Tom — the  girls — "  protested  the  soniber- 
eyed  Mr.  Fenn. 

"Ah,  I  don't  hurt  'em  and  they  like  it.  And  so  long  as 
your  whisky  hamestrings  you  and  my  girls  give  me  what  I 
need  in  my  business — don't  talk  to  me." 

Tom  Van  Dorn  left  Fenn  at  his  mother's  door  and  as  Fenn 
saw  his  friend  turn  toward  the  south  he  called,  "Aren't  you 
going  to  your  room?" 

"Why,  it's  only  eleven  o'clock,"  answered  Van  Dorn.  To 
the  inquiring  silence  Van  Dorn  called,  "I'm  going  down  to 
see  Lizzie." 

Henry  Fenn  stood  looking  at  his  friend,  who  explained: 
"That's  all  right.  I  said  I'd  be  down  to-night  and  she'll 
wait." 

"Well — "  said  Fenn.  But  Van  Dorn  cut  him  short  with 
"Now,  Henry,  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  Lizzie  can  take 
care  of  herself — and  you're  the  only  one  of  us  who,  as  I  see 
it,  needs  careful  nursing!"  And  with  that  he  went  striding 
away. 

And  three  hours  later  when  the  moon  was  waning  in  the 
west  a  girl  sitting  by  her  window  gazed  at  the  red  orb  and 
dreamed  beautiful  dreams,  such  as  a  girl  may  dream  but  once, 
of  the  prince  who  had  come  to  her  so  gloriously.  While 
the  prince  strolled  up  the  street  with  his  coat  over  his  arm, 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  letting  the  night  wind  flutter  the  raven 's 
wing  of  hair  on  his  brow,  and  as  he  went  he  laughed  to  him 
self  softly  and  laughed  and  laughed.  For  are  we  not  told  of 
old  to  put  not  our  trust  in  princes ! 


CHAPTER  III 

IN   WHICH   WE   CONSIDER   THE  LADIES — GOD   BLESS    *EM ! 

DURING  those  years  in  the  late  seventies  and  the  early 
eighties,  the  genii  on  the  Harvey  job  grunted  and 
grumbled  as  they  worked,  for  the  hours  were  long 
and  tedious  and  the  material  was  difficult  to  handle.  Kyle 
Perry's  wife  died,  and  it  was  all  the  genii  could  do  to  find 
him  a  cook  who  would  stay  with  him  and  his  lank,  slab-sided 
son,  and  when  the  genii  did  produce  a  cook — the  famous 
Katrina,  they  wished  her  on  Kyle  and  the  boy  for  life,  and 
she  ruled  them  with  an  iron  rod.  And  to  even  things  up, 
they  let  Kyle  stutter  himself  into  a  partnership  with  Ahab 
Wright — though  Kyle  was  trying  to  tell  Ahab  that  they 
should  have  a  partition  in  their  stable.  But  partition  was 
too  much  of  a  mouthful  and  poor  Kyle  fell  to  stuttering  on 
it  and  found  himself  sold  into  bondage  for  life  by  the  genii, 
dispensing  nails  and  cod-fish  and  calico  as  Ahab's  partner, 
before  Kyle  could  get  rid  of  the  word  partition. 

The  genii  also  had  to  break  poor  Casper  Herdicker's 
heart — and  he  had  one,  and  a  big  one,  despite  his  desire  for 
blood  and  plunder;  and  they  broke  it  when  his  wife  Brun- 
hilde  deserted  the  hearthstone  back  of  the  shoe-shop,  rented 
a  vacant  store  room  on  Market  Street  and  went  into  the  mil 
linery  way  of  life.  And  it  wasn't  enough  that  the  tired 
genii  had  to  gouge  out  the  streets  of  Harvey;  to  fill  in  the 
gulleys  and  ravines:  to  dab  in  scores  of  new  houses;  to  toil 
and  moil  over  the  new  hotel,  witching  up  four  bleak  stories 
upon  the  prairie.  It  wasn't  enough  that  they  had  to  cast  a 
spell  on  people  all  over  the  earth,  dragging  strangers  to 
Harvey  by  trainloads ;  it  wasn  't  enough  that  the  overworked 
genii  should  have  to  bring  big  George  Brotherton  to  town 
with  the  railroad — and  he  was  load  enough  for  any  engine; 
his  heart  itself  weighed  ten  stone ;  it  wasn 't  enough  that  they 

21 


22  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

had  to  find  various  and  innumerable  contraptions  for  Cap 
tain  Morton  to  peddle,  but  there  was  Tom  Van  Dorn's  new 
black  silk  mustache  to  grow,  and  to  be  oiled  and  curled  daily; 
so  he  had  to  go  to  the  Palace  Hotel  barber  shop  at  least  once 
every  day,  and  passing  the  cigar  counter,  he  had  to  pass  by 
Violet  Mauling — pretty,  empty-faced,  doll-eyed  Violet  Maul 
ing  at  the  cigar  stand.  And  all  the  long  night  and  all  the 
long  day,  the  genii,  working  on  the  Harvey  job,  cast  spells, 
put  on  charms,  and  did  their  deepest  sorcery  to  take  off 
the  power  of  the  magic  runes  that  young  Tom's  black  art 
were  putting  upon  her ;  and  day  after  day  the  genii  felt  their 
highest  potencies  fail.  So  no  wonder  they  mumbled  and 
grumbled  as  they  bent  over  their  chores.  For  a  time,  the 
genii  had  tried  to  work  on  Tom  Van  Dorn's  heart  after 
he  dropped  Lizzie  Coulter  and  sent  her  away  on  a  weary 
life  pilgrimage  with  Jared  Thurston,  as  the  wife  of  an  itiner 
ant  editor;  but  they  found  nothing  to  work  on  under  Tom's 
cigar  holder — that  is,  nothing  in  the  way  of  a  heart.  There 
was  only  a  kind  of  public  policy.  So  the  genii  made  the 
public  policy  as  broad  and  generous  as  they  could  and  let  it 
go  at  that. 

Tom  Van  Dorn  and  Henry  Fenn  rioted  in  their  twenties. 
John  Kollander  saved  a  bleeding  country,  pervaded  the 
courthouse  and  did  the  housework  at  home  while  Rhoda, 
his  wife,  who  couldn't  cook  hard  boiled  eggs,  organized 
the  French  Cooking  Club.  Captain  Ezra  Morton  spent  his 
mental  energy  upon  the  invention  of  a  self -heating  molasses 
spigot,  which  he  hoped  would  revolutionize  the  grocery 
business  while  his  physical  energy  was  devoted  to  introduc 
ing  a  burglar  proof  window  fastener  into  the  proud  homes 
that  were  dotting  the  tall  grass  environs  of  Harvey.  Amos 
Adams  was  hearing  rappings  and  holding  high  communion 
with  great  spirits  in  the  vasty  deep.  Daniel  Sands,  having 
buried  his  second  wife,  was  making  eyes  at  a  third  and  spin 
ning  his  financial  web  over  the  town.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Nesbit 
were  marvelling  at  the  mystery  of  a  child's  soul,  a  maiden's 
soul,  reaching  out  tendril  after  tendril  as  the  days  made 
years.  The  Dick  Bowmans  were  holding  biennial  receptions 
to  the  little  angels  who  came  to  the  house  in  the  Doctor's 
valise — and  welcomed,  hilariously  welcomed  babies  they  were 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  23 

— welcomed  with  cigars  and  free  drinks  at  Riley's  saloon  by 
Dick,  and  in  awed  silence  by  Lida,  his  wife — welcomed  even 
though  the  parents  never  knew  exactly  how  the  celestial 
guests  were  to  be  robed  and  harped ;  while  the  Joe  Calvins  of 
proud  Elm  Street,  opulent  in  an  eight  room  house,  with  the 
town's  one  bath  tub,  scowled  at  the  angels  who  kept  on  com 
ing  nevertheless — for  such  is  the  careless  and  often  captious 
way  of  angels  that  come  to  the  world  in  the  doctor's  black 
bag — kept  on  coming  to  the  frowning  house  of  Calvin  as 
frequently  and  as  idly  as  they  came  to  the  gay  Bowmans. 
Looking  back  on  those  days  a  generation  later,  it  would  seem 
as  if  the  whole  town  were  a  wilderness  of  babies.  They  came 
on  the  hill  in  Elm  Street,  a  star-eyed  baby  named  Ann  even 
came  to  the  Daniel  Sandses,  and  a  third  baby  to  the  Ezra 
Mortons  and  another  to  the  Kollanders  (which  gave  Rhoda 
an  excuse  for  forming  a  lifelong  habit  of  making  John  serve 
her  breakfast  in  bed  to  the  scorn  of  Mrs.  Nesbit  and  Mrs. 
Herdicker  who  for  thirty  years  sniffed  audibly  about  Rhoda's 
amiable  laziness)  and  the  John  Dexters  had  one  that  came 
and  went  in  the  night.  But  down  by  the  river — there  they 
came  in  flocks.  The  Dooleys,  the  McPhersons,  the  Williamses 
and  the  hordes  of  unidentified  men  and  women  who  came  to 
saw  boards,  mix  mortar,  make  bricks  and  dig — to  them  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven  was  very  near,  for  they  suffered  little 
children  and  forbade  them  not.  And  also,  because  the  king 
dom  was  so  near — so  near  even  to  homes  without  sewers, 
homes  where  dirt  and  cold  and  often  hunger  came — the  chil 
dren  were  prone  to  hurry  back  to  the  Kingdom  discouraged 
with  their  little  earthly  pilgrimages.  For  those  who  had 
dragged  chains  and  hewed  wood  and  drawn  water  in  the 
town's  first  days  seemed  by  some  specific  gravity  of  the  social 
system  to  be  holding  their  places  at  those  lower  levels — al 
ways  reaching  vainly  and  eagerly,  but  always  reaching  a  lit 
tle  higher  and  a  little  further  from  them  for  that  equality  of 
opportunity  which  seemed  to  lie  about  them  that  first  day 
when  the  town  was  born. 

In  the  upper  reaches  of  the  town  Henry  Fenn's  bibulous 
habits  became  accepted  matters  to  a  wider  and  wider  circle 
and  Tom  Van  Dorn  still  had  his  way  with  the  girls  while 
the  town  grinned  at  the  two  young  men  in  gay  reproval. 


24  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

But  Amos  Adams  through  his  familiar  spirits  got  solemn, 
cryptic  messages  for  the  young  men — from  Tom's  mother 
and  Henry's  father.  Amos,  abashed,  but  never  afraid,  used 
to  deliver  these  messages  with  incidental  admonitions  of  his 
own — kind,  gentle  and  gorgeously  ineffective.  Then  he 
would  return  to  his  office  with  a  serene  sense  of  a  duty  well 
done,  and  meet  and  feast  upon  the  eyes  of  Mary,  his  wife, 
keen,  hungry  eyes,  filled  with  more  or  less  sinful  pride  in 
his  strength. 

No  defeat  that  ever  came  to  Amos  Adams,  and  because  he 
was  born  out  of  his  time,  defeat  was  his  common  portion, 
and  no  contumely  ever  was  his  in  a  time  when  men  scorned 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen,  no  failure,  no  apparent  weak 
ness  in  her  husband's  nature,  ever  put  a  tremor  in  her  faith 
in  him.  For  she  knew  his  heart.  She  could  hear  his  armor 
clank  and  see  it  shine ;  she  could  feel  the  force  and  the  pre 
cision  of  his  lance  when  all  the  world  of  Harvey  saw  only  a 
dreamer  in  rusty  clothes,  fumbling  with  some  stupid  and 
ponderous  folly  that  the  world  did  not  understand.  The 
printing  office  that  Mary  and  Amos  thought  so  grand  was 
really  a  little  pine  shack,  set  on  wooden  piers  on  a  side  street. 
Inside  in  the  single  room,  with  the  rough-coated  walls  above 
the  press  and  type-cases  covered  with  inky  old  sale  bills,  and 
specimens  of  the  Tribune's  printing — inside  the  office  which 
seemed  to  Mary  and  Amos  the  palace  of  a  race  of  giants, 
others  saw  only  a  shabby,  inky,  little  room,  with  an  old 
fashioned  press  and  a  jobber  among  the  type  racks  in  the 
gloom  to  the  rear.  Through  the  front  window  that  looked 
into  a  street  filled  with  loads  of  hay  and  wood,  and  with 
broken  wagons,  and  scrap  iron  from  a  wheelwright's  shop, 
Amos  Adams  looked  for  the  everlasting  sunrise,  and  Mary  saw 
it  always  in  his  face. 

But  this  is  idling;  it  is  not  getting  on  with  the  Book. 
A  score  of  men  and  women  are  crowding  up  to  these  pages 
waiting  to  get  into  the  story.  And  the  town  of  Harvey,  how 
it  is  bursting  its  bounds,  how  it  is  sprawling  out  over  the 
white  paper,  tumbling  its  new  stores  and  houses  and  gas 
mains  and  water  pipes  all  over  the  table ;  with  what  a  clatter 
and  clamor  and  with  what  vain  pride  !  Now  the  pride  of 
those  years  in  Harvey  came  with  the  railroad,  and  here, 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  25 

pulling  at  the  paper,  stands  big  George  Brotherton  with  his 
ten  stone  heart.  He  has  been  sputtering  and  nagging  for  a 
dozen  pages  to  swing  off  the  front  platform  of  the  first 
passenger  car  that  came  to  town.  He  was  a  fat,  overgrown 
youth  in  his  late  teens,  but  he  wore  the  uniform  of  a  train 
newsboy,  and  any  uniform  is  a  uniform.  His  laugh  was 
like  the  crash  of  worlds — and  it  is  to-day  after  thirty  years. 
When  the  road  pushed  on  westward  Brotherton  remained 
in  Harvey  and  even  though  the  railroad  roundhouse  employed 
five  hundred  men  and  even  though  the  town's  population 
doubled  and  then  trebled,  still  George  Brotherton  was  better 
than  everything  else  that  the  railroad  brought.  He  found 
work  in  a  pool  and  billiard  hall;  but  that  was  a  pent-up 
Utica  for  him  and  his  contracted  powers  sent  him  to  Daniel 
Sands  for  a  loan  of  twenty-five  dollars.  The  unruffled 
exterior,  the  calm  impudence  with  which  the  boy  waived 
aside  the  banker's  request  for  a  second  name  on  George's 
note,  and  the  boy's  obvious  eagerness  to  be  selling  some 
thing,  secured  the  money  and  established  him  in  a  cigar 
store  and  news  stand.  Within  a  year  the  store  became  a 
social  center  that  rivaled  Riley's  saloon  and  being  near  the 
midst  of  things  in  business,  attracted  people  of  a  different 
sort  from  those  who  frequented  Casper  llerdicker's  de 
bating  school  in  the  shoe  shop.  To  the  cigar  stand  by  day 
came  Dr.  Nesbit  with  his  festive  but  guileful  politics,  Joe 
Calvin,  Amos  Adams,  stuttering  Kyle  Perry,  deaf  John 
Kollander,  occasionally  Dick  Bowman,  Ahab  Wright  in 
his  white  necktie  and  formal  garden  whiskers,  Rev.  John 
Dexter  and  Captain  Morton;  while  by  night  the  little  store 
was  a  forum  for  young  Mortimer  Sands,  for  Tom  Van 
Dorn,  for  Plenry  Fenn,  for  the  clerks  of  Market  Street 
and  for  such  gay  young  blades  as  were  either  unmar 
ried  or  being  married  were  brave  enough  to  break  the 
apron  string.  For  thirty  years,  nearly  a  generation,  they 
have  been  meeting  there  night  after  night  and  on  rainy  days, 
taking  the  world  apart  and  putting  it  together  again  to  suit 
themselves.  And  though  strangers  have  come  into  the  coun 
cil  at  Brotherton 's,  Captain  Morton  remains  dean.  And 
though  the  Captain  does  not  know  it,  being  corroded  with 
pride,  there  still  clings  about  the  place  a  tradition  of  the  day 


26  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

when  Captain  Morton  rode  his  high  wheeled  bicycle,  the  first 
the  town  ever  had  seen,  in  the  procession  to  his  wife's  fun 
eral.  They  say  it  was  the  Captain's  serene  conviction  that 
his  agency  for  the  bicycle — exclusive  for  five  counties — 
would  make  him  rich,  and  that  it  was  no  lack  of  love  and 
respect  for  his  wife  but  rather  an  artist's  pride  in  his  work 
as  the  distributor  of  a  long-felt  want  which  perched  Ezra 
Morton  on  that  high  wheel  in  the  funeral  procession.  For 
Mary  Adams  who  knew,  who  was  with  the  stricken  family 
when  death  came,  who  was  in  the  lonely  house  when  the 
family  came  home  from  the  cemetery,  says  that  Ezra's  grief 
was  real.  Surely  thirty  years  of  singlehearted  devotion  to 
the  three  motherless  girls  should  prove  his  love. 

Those  were  gala  days  for  Captain  Morton;  the  whole 
universe  was  flowering  in  his  mind  in  schemes  and  plans  and 
devices  which  he  hoped  to  harness  for  his  power  and  glory. 
And  the  forensic  group  at  Mr.  Brotherton's  had  much  first 
hand  information  from  the  Captain  as  to  the  nature  of  his 
proposed  activities  and  his  prospective  conquests.  And  while 
the  Captain  in  his  prime  was  surveying  the  world  that  was 
about  to  come  under  his  domain  the  house  of  Adams,  little 
and  bleak  and  poor,  down  near  the  Wahoo  on  the  homestead 
which  the  Adamses  had  taken  in  the  sixties  became  in  spite 
of  itself,  a  gay  and  festive  habitation.  Childhood  always 
should  make  a  home  bright  and  there  came  a  time  when  the 
little  house  by  the  creek  fairly  blossomed  with  young  faces. 
The  children  of  the  Hollanders,  the  Perrys,  the  Calvins,  the 
Nesbits,  and  the  Bowmans — girls  and  boys  were  everywhere 
and  they  knew  all  times  and  seasons.  But  the  red  poll  and 
freckled  face  of  Grant  Adams  was  the  center  of  this  posy 
bed  of  youth. 

Grant  was  a  shrill-voiced  boy,  impulsive  and  passionately 
generous  and  all  but  obsessed  with  a  desire  to  protect  the 
weak.  Whether  it  was  bug,  worm  or  dog,  or  hunted  animal 
or  bullied  child  or  drunken  man,  fly-swarmed  and  bedeviled 
of  boys  in  the  alley,  or  a  little  girl  teased  by  her  playmates, 
Grant — fighting  mad,  came  rushing  in  to  do  battle  for  the 
victim.  Yet  he  was  no  anemic  child  of  ragged  nerves.  His 
fist  went  straight  when  he  fought,  and  landed  with  force. 
His  eyes  saw  accurately  and  his  voice  carried  terror  in  it. 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  27 

He  was  a  vivid  youth,  and  without  him  the  place  down 
by  the  river  would  have  been  bleak  and  dreary.  But  be 
cause  Grant  was  in  the  world,  the  rusty  old  phaeton  in  which 
Amos  and  Mary  rode  daily  from  the  farm  to  their  work, 
gradually  bedecked  itself  with  budding  childhood  blooming 
into  youth,  and  it  was  no  longer  drab  and  dusty,  but  a 
veritable  chariot  of  life.  When  Grant  was  a  sturdy  boy  of 
eight,  little  Jasper  Adams  came  into  this  big  bewildering 
world.  And  after  Grant  and  his  gardenful  of  youth  were 
gone,  Jasper's  garden  followed.  And  there  was  a  short  sea 
son  when  the  two  gardens  were  growing  together.  It  was  in 
that  season  while  Grant  was  just  coming  into  shoeblacking 
and  paper  collars,  that  in  some  indefinite  way,  Laura  Nesbit, 
daughter  of  the  Doctor  and  Bedelia  Satterthwaite,  his  blue 
blooded  Maryland  wife,  separated  herself  from  the  general 
beauty  of  the  universe  and  for  Grant,  Laura  became  a  par 
ticular  person.  In  Mary  Adams's  note  book  she  writes  with 
maternal  pride  of  his  fancy  for  Laura :  "It  is  the  only  time 
in  Grant's  life  when  he  has  looked  up  instead  of  down  for 
something  to  love."  And  the  mother  sets  down  a  communi 
cation  from  Socrates  through  the  planchette  to  Amos,  de 
claring  that  "Love  is  a  sphere  center" — a  message  which 
doubtless  the  fond  parents  worked  into  tremendous  import 
for  their  child.  Though  a  communication  from  some  anony 
mous  sage  called  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher,  who  began 
haunting  Amos  as  a  familiar  spirit  about  this  time  recorded 
the  oracle,  also  carefully  preserved  by  Mary  in  her  book 
among  the  prophecies  for  Grant  that,  "Carrots,  while  less 
fragrant  than  roses,  are  better  for  the  blood."  And  while 
the  cosmic  forces  were  wrestling  with  these  problems  for 
Grant  and  Laura,  the  children  were  tripping  down  their 
early  teens  all  innocent  of  the  uproar  they  were  making 
among  the  sages  and  statesmen  and  conquerors  who  flocked 
about  the  planchette  board  for  Amos  every  night.  For 
Laura,  Grant  carved  tiny  baskets  from  peach-pits  and  coffee 
beans ;  for  her  he  saved  red  apples  and  candy  globes  that  held 
in  their  precious  insides  gorgeous  pictures;  for  her  he  combed 
his  hair  and  washed  his  neck;  for  her  he  scribbled  verses 
wherein  eyes  met  skies,  and  arts  met  hearts,  and  beams  met 
dreams  and  loves  the  doves. 


28  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  joy  of  first  love  that  comes  in  early  youth — and  always 
it  does  come  then,  though  it  is  not  always  confessed — is  a 
gawky  and  somewhat  guilty  joy  that  spends  itself  in  sighs 
and  blushes  and  Heaven  knows  what  of  self -discovery.  Thus 
Grant  in  Laura's  autograph  album  after  all  his  versifying  on 
the  kitchen  table  could  only  write  "Truly  Yours"  and  leave 
her  to  define  the  deep  significance  of  the  phrase  so  obviously 
inverted.  And  she  in  his  autograph  album  could  only  trust 
herself — though  naturally  being  female  she  was  bolder — to 
the  placid  depths  of  "As  ever  your  friend."  Though  in 
lean,  hungry-eyed  Nathan  Perry's  book  she  burst  into  glow 
ing  words  of  deathless  remembrance  and  Grant  wrote  in 
Emma  Morton's  album  fervid  stanzas  wherein  "you"  rimed 
with  "the  wandering  Jew"  and  "me"  with  "eternity."  At 
school  where  the  subtle  wisdom  of  childhood  reads  many 
things  not  writ  in  books,  the  names  of  Grant  and  Laura  were 
linked  together,  in  the  innocent  gossip  of  that  world. 

They  say  that  modern  thought  deems  these  youthful  ex 
periences  dangerous  and  superfluous;  and  so  probably  they 
will  end,  and  the  joy  of  this  earliest  mating  season  will  be 
bottled  up  and  stored  for  a  later  maturity.  God  is  wise  and 
good.  Doubtless  some  new  and  better  thing  will  take  the 
place  of  this  first  moving  of  the  waters  of  life  in  the  heart ; 
but  for  us  of  the  older  generation  that  is  beginning  to  fade, 
we  are  glad  that  untaught  and  innocent,  our  lips  tasted 
from  that  spring  when  in  the  heart  was  no  knowledge  of  the 
poison  that  might  come  with  the  draft. 

A  tall,  shy,  vivid  girl,  but  above  everything  else,  friendly, 
was  Laura  Nesbit  in  her  middle  teens ;  and  though  Grant  in 
later  years  remembered  her  as  having  wonderful  gray  eyes, 
the  elder  town  of  Harvey  for  the  most  part  recollects  her 
only  as  a  gay  and  kindly  spirit  looking  out  into  the  world 
through  a  happy,  inquiring  face.  But  the  elder  town  could 
not  in  the  nature  of  things  know  Laura  Nesbit  as  the  chil 
dren  knew  her.  For  the  democracy  of  childhood  has  its  own 
estimates  of  its  own  citizens  and  the  children  of  Harvey— 
the  Dooleys  and  the  Williamses  and  the  Bowmans  as  well  as 
the  Calvins,  the  Mortons,  the  Sandses  and  the  Kollanders, 
remember  Laura  Nesbit  for  something  more  than  her  rather 
gawky  body.  To  the  children,  she  was  a  bright  soul.  They 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  29 

remember — and  the  Bowmans  better  than  any  one  else — that 
Laura  Nesbit  shared  what  she  had  with  every  one.  She 
never  ate  a  whole  stick  of  candy  in  her  life.  From  her  school 
lunch-basket,  the  Dooleys  had  their  first  oranges  and  the 
Williamses  their  first  bananas.  Apples  for  the  Bowmans 
and  maple  sugar — a  rare  delicacy  on  the  prairies  in  those 
days — for  every  one  came  from  her  wonderful  basket.  And 
though  her  mother  kept  Laura  in  white  aprons  when  the 
other  girls  were  in  ginghams  and  in  little  red  and  black 
woolen,  though  the  child's  wonderful  yellow  hair,  soft  and 
wavy  like  her  father's  plumey  roach,  was  curled  with  great 
care  and  much  pride,  it  was  her  mother's  pride — the  grim 
Satterthwaite  demand  for  caste  in  any  democracy.  But 
even  with  those  caste  distinctions  there  was  the  face  that 
smiled,  the  lips  that  trembled  in  sympathy,  the  heart  that  felt 
the  truth. 

"Jim,"  quoth  the  mother  on  a  day  when  the  yard  was  full 
of  Dooleys  and  Bowmans  and  Calvins — Calvins,  whom  Mrs. 
Nesbit  regarded  as  inferior  even  to  the  Dooleys  because  of 
the  vast  Calvin  pretense — "Jim,  Laura  has  inherited  that 
common  Indiana  streak  of  yours.  I  can't  make  her  a  Sat 
terthwaite — she's  Indiana  to  the  bone.  Why,  when  I  go  to 
town  with  her,  every  drayman  and  ditch  digger  and  stable 
man  calls  to  her,  and  the  yard  is  always  full  of  their  tow- 
headed  children.  I'll  give  her  up." 

And  the  Doctor  gurgled  a  chuckle  and  gave  her  up  also. 

She  always  came  with  her  father  to  the  Adamses  on  Sunday 
afternoons,  and  while  the  Doctor  and  Amos  Adams  on  the 
porch  went  into  the  matter  of  the  universe  as  either  a 
phantasm  superinduced  by  the  notion  of  time,  or  the  notion 
of  time  as  an  hallucination  of  those  who  believed  in  space, 
down  by  the  creek  Grant  and  Laura  sitting  under  the  oak 
near  the  silent,  green  pool  were  feeling  their  way  around 
the  universe,  touching  shyly  and  with  great  abasement  the 
cords  that  lead  from  the  body  to  the  soul,  from  material  to  the 
spiritual,  from  dust  to  God. 

It  is  a  queer  world,  a  world  that  is  past  finding  out.  Here 
are  two  children,  touching  souls  in  the  fleetest,  lightest  way 
in  the  world,  and  the  touch  welds  them  together  forever. 
And  along  come  two  others,  and  even  as  the  old  song  has  it, 


30  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

* '  after  touch  of  wedded  hands, ' '  they  are  strangers  yet.  No 
one  knows  what  makes  happiness  in  love.  Certainly  marriage 
is  no  part  of  it.  Certainly  it  is  not  first  love,  for  first  lovers 
often  quarrel  like  cats.  Certainly  it  is  not  separation,  for 
absence,  alas,  does  not  make  the  heart  grow  fonder;  nor  is  it 
children — though  the  good  God  knows  that  should  help;  for 
they  are  love  incarnate.  Certainly  it  is  not  respect,  for 
respect  is  a  stale,  cold  comforter,  and  love  is  deeper  than 
respect,  and  often  lives  without  it — let  us  whisper  the  truth 
in  shame.  What,  then,  is  this  irrational  current  of  the  stuff 
of  life,  that  carries  us  all  in  its  sway,  that  brings  us  to  earth, 
that  guides  our  destiny  here — makes  so  vastly  for  our  happi 
ness  or  woe,  gives  us  strength  or  makes  us  weak,  teaches  us 
wisdom  or  leads  us  into  folly  unspeakable,  and  all  unseen, 
unmeasured  and  infinitely  mysterious? 

There  was  young  Tom  Van  Dorn.  Love  was  a  pleasurable 
emotion,  and  because  it  put  a  joyous  fever  in  his  blood,  it 
enhanced  his  life.  But  he  never  defined  love ;  he  merely  lived 
on  it.  Then  there  was  Ahab  Wright  who  regarded  love  as  a 
kind  of  sin  and  when  he  married  the  pale,  bloodless,  shadowy 
bookkeeper  in  Wright  &  Perry's  store,  he  regarded  the 
charivari  prepared  by  Morty  Sands  and  George  Brotherton 
as  a  shameful  rite  and  tried  for  an  hour  to  lecture  the  crowd 
in  his  front  yard  on  the  evils  of  unseemly  conduct  before  he 
gave  them  an  order  on  the  store  for  a  bucket  of  mixed  candy. 
If  Ahab  had  defined  love  he  would  have  put  cupid  in  side 
whiskers  and  a  white  necktie  and  set  the  fat  little  god  to 
measuring  shingle  nails,  cod-fish  and  calico  on  week  days 
and  sitting  around  in  a  tail  coat  and  mouse-colored  trousers 
on  Sunday,  reading  the  Christian  Evangel  and  the  Price 
Current.  And  again  there  was  Daniel  Sands  who  married 
five  women  in  a  long  and  more  or  less  useful  life.  He  would 
have  defined  love  as  the  apotheosis  of  comfort.  Finally 
there  was  Henry  Fenn  to  whom  love  became  the  compelling 
force  of  his  being.  Love  is  many  things:  indeed  only  this 
seems  sure.  Love  is  the  current  of  our  lives,  and  like  min 
nows  we  run  in  schools  through  it,  guided  by  instinct  and  by 
herd  suggestions;  arid  some  of  us  are  washed  ashore;  some 
of  us  are  caught  and  devoured,  and  others  fare  forth  in  joy 
and  reach  the  deep. 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  31 

One  rainy  day  when  the  conclave  in  Brotherton's  cigar 
store  was  weary  of  discussing  the  quarrel  of  Mr.  Coiiklin  and 
Mr.  Blame  and  the  eccentricities  of  the  old  German  Kaiser, 
the  subject  of  love  came  before  the  house  for  discussion. 
Dr.  Nesbit,  who  dropped  in  incidentally  to  buy  a  cigar,  but 
primarily  to  see  George  Brotherton  about  some  matters  of 
state  in  the  Third  ward,  found  young  Tom  Van  Dorn  strok 
ing  his  new  silky  mustache,  squinting  his  eyes  and  consider 
ing  himself  generally  in  the  attitude  of  little  Jack  Homer 
after  the  plum  episode. 

"Speaking  broadly,"  squeaked  the  Doctor,  breaking  irri 
tably  into  the  talk,  "touching  the  ladies,  God  bless  'em — from 
young  Tom's  angle,  there's  nothing  to  'em.  Broad  is  the 
petticoat  that  leadeth  to  destruction."  The  Doctor  turned 
from  young  Van  Dorn,  and  looked  critically  at  some  obvious 
subject  of  Van  Dorn's  remarks  as  she  picked  her  way  across 
the  muddy  street,  showing  something  more  than  a  wink  of 
striped  stockings,  "Tom,  there's  nothing  in  it — not  a  thing 
in  the  world." 

"Oh, — I  don't  know,"  returned  the  youth,  wagging  an 
impudent,  though  goodnatured  head  at  the  Doctor;  "what 
else  is  there  in  the  world  if  not  in  that?  The  world's  full 
of  it — flowers,  trees,  birds,  beasts,  men  and  women — the 
whole  damn  universe  is  afire  with  it.  It's  God;  there  is  no 
other  God — just  nature  building  and  propagating  and  per 
petuating  herself." 

"I  suppose,"  squeaked  the  Doctor  with  a  sigh,  as  he 
reached  for  his  morning  paper,  "that  if  I  had  nothing  else  to 
do  for  a  living  except  practice  law  with  Joe  Calvin  on  the 
side  and  just  be  twenty-five  years  old  three  hundred  days  in 
the  year,  and  no  other  chores  except  to  help  old  man  Sands 
rib  up  his  waterworks  deal,  I  would  hold  some  such  general 
views  myself.  But  when  I  was  twenty-five,  young  man, 
Bedelia  and  I  were  running  a  race  with  the  meal  ticket, 
and  our  notions  as  to  the  moral  government  of  the  universe 
came  hard  and  were  deepset,  and  we  can't  change  them 
now." 

George  Brotherton,  Henry  Fenn,  Captain  Morton  and 
Amos  Adams  came  in  with  a  kind  of  Greek  chorus  of  general 
agreement  with  the  Doctor.  Van  Dorn  cocked  his  hat  over 


32  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

his  eyes  and  laughed,  and  then  the  Doctor  went  on  in  his 
high  falsetto : 

"It's  all  right,  Tom;  go  it  while  you're  young.  But  that 
kind  of  love's  young  dream  generally  ends  in  a  nightmare.'1 
He  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then  said:  "Well,  so  long  as 
we're  all  here  in  the  family,  I'll  tell  you  about  a  case  I  had 
last  night.  There's  an  old  fellow — old  Dutchman  to  be 
exact,  down  in  Spring  township ;  he  came  here  with  us  when 
we  founded  the  town;  husky  old  boy,  that  is,  he  used  to  be 
fifteen  years  ago.  And  he  had  Tom 's  notion  about  the  ladies, 
God  bless  'em,  when  he  was  Tom's  age.  When  I  first  knew 
him  his  notion  was  causing  him  trouble,  and  had  settled  in 
one  leg,  and  last  night  he  died  of  the  ladies,  God  bless  'em. ' ' 

The  Doctor's  face  flinched  with  pain,  and  his  treble  voice 
winced  as  he  spoke:  "Lord,  but  he  suffered,  and  to  add  to 
his  physical  torment,  he  knew  that  he  had  to  leave  his  daugh 
ter  all  alone  in  the  world — and  without  a  mother  and  without 
a  dollar ;  but  that  isn  't  the  worst,  and  he  knew  it — at  the  last. 
This  being  twenty-five  for  a  living  is  the  hardest  job  on  earth 
— when  you're  sixty,  and  the  old  man  knew  that.  The  girl 
has  missed  his  blood  taint;  she's  not  scarred  nor  disfigured. 
It  would  be  better  if  she  were;  but  he  gave  her  something 
worse — she's  his  child!"  For  a  moment  the  Doctor  was 
silent,  then  he  sighed  deeply  and  shut  his  eyes  as  he  said: 
"Boys,  for  a  year  and  more  he's  been  seeing  all  that  he  was, 
bud  like  a  glorious  poison  in  his  daughter." 

Van  Dorn  smiled,  and  asked  casually,  "Well,  what's  her 
name?"  The  rest  of  the  group  in  the  store  looked  down 
their  noses  and  the  Doctor,  with  his  paper  under  his  arm, 
obviously  ignored  the  question  and  only  stopped  in  the  door 
to  pipe  out :  ' '  This  wasu  't  the  morning  to  talk  to  me  of  the 
ladies — God  bless  'em." 

The  men  in  the  store  watched  him  as  he  started  across  the 
street,  and  then  saw  Laura  skip  gayly  toward  him,  and  the 
two,  holding  hands,  crossed  the  muddy  street  together.  She 
was  laughing,  and  the  joy  of  her  soul — a  child's  soul,  shone 
like  a  white  flame  in  the  dull  street  and  George  Brotherton, 
who  saw  the  pair  in  the  street,  roared  out:  "Well,  say — 
now  isn't  that  something  worth  looking  at?  That  beats 
Niagara  Falls  and  Pike's  Peak — for  me." 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  33 

Captain  Morton  looked  at  the  gay  pair  attentively  for  a 
moment  and  spoke:  "And  I  have  three  to  his  one;  I  tell 
you,  gentlemen — three  to  his  one ;  and  I  guess  I  haven 't  told 
you  gentlemen  about  it,  but  I  got  the  exclusive  agency  for 
seven  counties  for  Golden 's  Patent  Self-Opening  Fruit  Can, 
an  absolute  necessity  for  every  household,  and  in  another 
year  my  three  will  be  wearing  their  silks  and  diamonds!" 
He  smiled  proudly  around  the  group  and  added :  "My !  that 
doesn't  make  any  difference.  Silk  or  gingham,  I  know  I've 
got  the  best  girls  on  earth — why,  if  their  mother  could  just 
see  'em — see  how  they're  unfolding — why,  Emma  can  make 
every  bit  as  good  hash  as  her  mother,"  a  hint  of  tears  stood 
in  his  blue  eyes.  "Why — men,  I  tell  you  sometimes  I  want 
to  die  and  go  right  off  to  Heaven  to  tell  mother  all  the  fine 
news  about  'em — eh?"  Deaf  John  Kollander,  with  his  hand 
to  his  less  affected  ear,  nodded  approval  and  said,  "That's 
what  I  always  said,  James  G.  Blaine  never  was  a  true  friend 
of  the  soldier!" 

Van  Dorn  had  been  looking  intently  at  nothing  through 
the  store  window.  When  no  one  answered  Captain  Morton, 
Van  Dorn  addressed  the  house  rather  impersonally: 

"Man  is  the  blindest  of  the  mammals.  You'd  think  as 
smart  a  man  as  Dr.  Nesbit  would  see  his  own  vices.  Here 
he  is  mayor  of  Harvey,  boss  of  the  town.  He  buys  men 
with  Morty's  father's  money  and  sells  'em  in  politics  like 
sheep — not  for  his  own  gain;  not  for  his  family's  gain;  but 
just  for  the  joy  of  the  sport;  just  as  I  follow  the  ladies, 
God  bless  'em;  and  yet  he  stands  up  and  reads  me  a 
lecture  on  the  wickedness  of  a  little  more  or  less  innocent 
flirting."  The  young  man  lighted  his  cigar  at  the  alcohol 
flame  on  the  counter.  "Morty,"  he  continued,  squinting  his 
eyes  and  stroking  his  mustache,  and  looking  at  the  boy  with 
vast  vanity,  "  Morty,  do  you  know  what  your  old  dad  and 
yon  virtuous  Nesbit  pasha  are  doing?  Well,  I'll  tell  you 
something  you  didn't  learn  at  military  school.  They're  put 
ting  up  a  deal  by  which  we've  voted  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  city  bonds  as  bonus  in  aid  of  a  system  of 
city  water  works  and  have  given  them  to  your  dad  outright, 
for  putting  in  a  plant  that  he  will  own  and  control ;  and  that 
he  will  build  for  seventy-five  thousand  dollars."  Van  Dorn 


34  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

smiled  a  placid,  malevolent  smile  at  the  group  and  went  on : 
"And  the  sheik  of  the  village  there  helped  Daniel  Sands  put 
it  through;  helped  him  buy  me  as  city  attorney,  with  your 
father's  bank's  legal  business;  helped  buy  Dick  Bowman, 
poor  devil  with  a  houseful  of  children  for  a  hundred  dollars 
for  his  vote  in  the  council,  helped  work  George  here  for  his 
vote  in  the  council  by  lending  money  to  him  for  his  business ; 
and  so  on  down  the  line.  The  Doc  calls  that  politics,  and 
regards  it  as  one  of  his  smaller  vices;  but  me?"  scoffed  the 
young  man,  "when  I  go  gamboling  down  the  primrose  path 
of  dalliance  with  a  lady  on  each  arm — or  maybe  more,  I  am 
haled  before  the  calif  and  sentenced  to  his  large  and  virtuous 
displeasure.  Man," — here  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn  drummed 
his  fingers  on  the  showcase  and  considered  the  universe  calmly 
through  the  store  window — "man  is  the  blindest  of  mam 
mals."  After  which  smiling  deliverance,  Thomas  Van  Dorn 
picked  up  his  morning  paper,  and  his  gloves,  and  stalked 
with  some  dignity  into  the  street. 

"Well,  say," — Brotherton  was  the  first  to  speak — "rather 
cool—" 

* '  Shame,  shame ! ' '  cried  John  Kollander,  as  he  buttoned  up 
his  blue  coat  with  its  brass  buttons.  "Where  was  Blame 
when  the  bullets  were  thickest?  Answer  me  that."  No  one 
answered,  but  Captain  Morton  began: 

"Now,  George,  why,  that's  all  right.  Didn't  the  people 
vote  the  bonds  after  you  fellows  submitted  'em  ?  Of  course 
they  did.  The  town  wanted  waterworks;  Daniel  Sands 
knew  how  to  build  'cm — eh  ?  The  people  couldn  't  build  'em 
themselves,  could  they?"  asked  the  Captain  triumphantly. 
Brotherton  laughed;  Morty  Sands  grinned, — and,  shame  be 
to  Amos  Adams,  the  rugged  Puritan,  who  had  opposed  the 
bonds  in  his  paper  so  boldly,  he  only  shook  a  sorrowful  head 
and  lifted  no  voice  in  protest.  Such  is  the  weakness  of  our 
thunderers  without  their  lightning!  Brotherton,  who  still 
seemed  uneasy,  went  on:  "Say,  men,  didn't  that  franchise 
call  for  a  system  of  electric  lights  and  gas  in  five  years  and  a 
telephone  system  in  ten  years  more — all  for  that  $100,000; 
I'm  right  here  to  tell  you  we  got  a  lot  for  our  money." 

Again  Amos  Adams  swallowed  his  Adam's  apple  and  cut 
in  as  boldly  as  a  man  may  who  thinks  with  his  lead  pencil : 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  35 

"And  don't  forget  the  street  car  franchises  you  gave  away  at 
the  same  time.  Water,  light,  gas,  telephone  and  street  car 
franchises  for  fifty  years  arid  one  hundred  thousand  to  boot ! 
It  seemed  to  me  you  were  giving  away  a  good  deal ! ' ' 

But  John  Kollander's  approving  nod  and  George  Brother- 
ton's  great  laugh  overcame  the  editor,  and  the  talk  turned  to 
other  things. 

There  came  a  day  in  Harvey  when  men,  looking  back  at 
events  from  the  perspective  of  another  day,  believed  that  in 
those  old  days  of  Harvey,  Daniel  Sands  was  master  and 
Dr.  Nesbit  was  servant.  And  there  was  much  evidence  to 
indicate  that  Daniel's  was  the  master  spirit  of  those  early 
times.  But  the  evidence  was  merely  based  on  facts,  and 
facts  often  are  far  from  the  truth.  The  truth  is  that  Daniel 
Sands  was  the  beneficiary  of  much  of  the  activity  of  Doctor 
Nesbit  in  those  days,  but  the  truth  is  also  that  Doctor  Nesbit 
did  what  he  did — won  the  county  seat  for  Harvey,  secured 
the  railroad,  promoted  the  bond  election,  which  gave  Daniel 
Sands  the  franchises  for  the  distribution  of  water,  gas  and 
electricity — not  because  the  Doctor  had  any  particular  regard 
for  Daniel  Sands  but  because,  first  of  all,  the  good  of  the 
town,  as  the  Doctor  saw  it,  seemed  to  require  him  to  act  as 
he  acted;  and  second,  because  his  triumph  at  any  of  these 
elections  meant  power,  and  he  was  greedy  for  power.  But 
he  always  used  his  power  to  make  others  happy.  No  man 
ever  came  to  the  Doctor  looking  for  work  that  he  could  not 
find  work  for  that  man.  Men  in  ditches,  men  on  light  poles, 
men  in  the  court  house,  men  at  Daniel  Sands 's  furnaces, 
men  grading  new  streets,  men  working  on  city  or  county 
contracts  knew  but  one  source  of  authority  in  Harvey,  and 
that  was  Doctor  James  Nesbit.  Daniel  Sands  was  a  mere 
money  grubbing  incident  of  that  power.  Daniel  could  have 
won  no  one  to  vote  with  him ;  the  county  seat  would  have  gone 
to  a  rival  town,  the  railroad  would  not  have  veered  five  miles 
out  of  its  way  to  reach  Harvey,  and  a  dozen  promoters  would 
have  wrangled  for  a  dozen  franchises  but  for  Dr.  Nesbit. 

And  if  Dr.  Nesbit  made  it  his  business  to  see  that  Dick 
Bowman  had  work,  it  was  somewhat  because  he  knew  how 
badly  the  little  Bowmans  needed  food.  And  if  he  saw  to  it 
that  Dick's  vote  in  the  council  occasionally  yielded  him  a 


36  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

substantial  return  from  those  whom  that  vote  benefited  so 
muniiicently,  it  was  partly  because  the  Doctor  felt  how  sorely 
Lida  Bowman,  silently  bending  over  her  washtub,  needed  the 
little  comforts  which  the  extra  fifty-dollar  bill  would  bring 
that  Dick  sometimes  found  in  his  monthly  pay  envelope. 
And  if  the  Doctor  saw  to  it  that  Ira  Dooley  was  made  fore 
man  of  the  water  works  gang,  or  that  Tom  Williams  had  the 
contract  for  the  stone  work  on  the  new  court  house,  it  was 
largely  in  payment  for  services  rendered  by  Ira  and  Tom  in 
bringing  in  the  Second  Ward  for  John  Kollander  for  county 
clerk.  The  rewards  of  Ira  and  Tom  in  working  for  the  Doc 
tor  were  virtue's  own;  and  if  re-marking  a  hundred  ballots 
was  part  of  that  blessed  service,  well  and  good.  And  also  it 
must  be  recorded  that  the  foremanship  and  the  stone  con 
tract  were  somewhat  the  Doctor's  way  of  showing  Mrs.  Doo 
ley  and  Mrs.  Williams  that  he  wished  them  well. 

Doctor  Nesbit's  scheme  of  politics  included  no  punishments 
for  his  enemies,  and  he  desired  every  one  for  his  friend.  The 
round,  pink  face,  the  high-roached,  yellow  hair,  the  friendly, 
blue  eyes,  had  no  place  for  hate  in  them,  and  in  the  high- 
pitched,  soft  voice  was  no  note  of  terror  to  evil  doers.  His 
countenance  did  not  betray  his  power ;  that  was  in  his  tireless 
little  legs,  his  effective  hands,  and  his  shrewd  brain  motived 
by  a  heart  too  kind  for  the  finer  moral  distinctions  that  men 
must  make  who  go  far  in  this  world.  Yet  because  he  had  a 
heart,  a  keen  mind,  even  without  much  conscience,  and  a 
vision  larger  than  those  about  him,  Dr.  Nesbit  was  their 
leader.  He  did  not  move  in  a  large  sphere,  but  in  his  small 
sphere  he  was  the  central  force,  the  dominating  spirit.  And 
oft'  in  a  dark  corner,  Daniel  Sands,  who  was  hunger  incarnate 
and  nothing  more,  spun  his  web,  gathered  the  dust  and  the 
flies  and  the  weaker  insects  and  waxed  fat.  To  say  that  his 
mind  ruled  Dr.  Nesbit's,  to  say  that  Daniel  Sands  was  master 
and  Dr.  Nesbit  servant  in  those  first  decades  of  Harvey — 
whatever  the  facts  may  seem  in  those  later  days — is  one  of 
those  ornately  ridiculous  travesties  upon  the  truth  that  facts 
sometimes  are  arranged  to  make.  But  how  little  did  they 
know  what  they  were  building !  For  they  and  their  kind  all 
over  America  working  in  the  darkness  of  their  own  selfish 
desires,  were  laying  footing  stones — quite  substantial  yet 


WE  CONSIDER  THE  LADIES  37 

necessary— for  the  structure  of  a  growing  civilization  which 
in  its  time,  stripped  of  its  scaffolding  and  extraneous  debris, 
was  to  stand  among  the  nations  of  the  earth  as  a  tower  of 
righteousness  in  a  stricken  world. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   ADAMS   FAMILY   BIBLE   LIES   LIKE   A   GENTLEMAN 

HOW    light    a   line    divides    comedy    from    tragedy! 
When  the  ass  speaks,  or  the  man  brays,  there  is 
comedy.     Yet  fate  may  stop  the  mouth  of  either 
man  or  ass,  and  in  the  dumb  struggle  for  voice,  if  fate  turns 
the  screws  of  destiny  upon  duty,  there  is  tragedy.     Only  the 
consequences  of  a  day  or  a  deed  can  decide  whether  it  shall 
have  the  warm  blessing  of  our  smiles  or  the  bitter  benediction 
of  our  tears. 

This,  one  must  remember  in  reading  the  chapter  of  this 
story  that  shall  follow.  It  is  the  close  of  the  story  to  which 
Mary  Adams,  with  her  memory  book  and  notes  and  clippings, 
has  contributed  much.  For  of  the  pile  of  envelopes  all  num 
bered  in  their  order ;  the  one  marked  "Margaret  Miiller"  was 
the  last  envelope  that  she  left.  Now  the  package  that  con 
cerns  Margaret  Miiller  may  not  be  transcribed  separately 
but  must  be  woven  into  the  woof  of  the  tale.  The  package 
contains  a  clipping,  a  dozen  closely  written  pages,  and  a 
photograph — a  small  photograph  of  a  girl.  The  photograph 
is  printed  on  the  picture  of  a  scroll,  and  the  likeness  of  the 
girl  does  not  throb  with  life  as  it  did  thirty  years  ago  when 
it  was  taken.  Then  the  plump,  voluptuous  arm  and  shoul 
ders  in  the  front  of  the  picture  seemed  to  exude  life  and  to 
bristle  with  the  temptation  that  lurked  under  the  brown 
lashes  shading  her  big,  innocent,  brown  eyes.  And  her  hair, 
her  wonderful  brown  hair  that  fell  in  a  great  rope  to  her 
knees,  in  this  photograph  is  hidden,  and  only  her  frizzes, 
covering  a  fine  forehead,  are  emphasized  by  the  picture 
maker.  One  may  smile  at  the  picture  now,  but  then  when  it 
was  taken  it  told  of  the  red  of  her  lips  and  the  pink  of  her 
flesh,  and  the  dimples  that  forever  went  flickering  across  her 
face.  In  those  days,  the  old-fashioned  picture  portrayed 
with  great  clearness  the  joy  and  charm  and  impudence  of 
that  beautiful  face.  But  now  the  picture  is  only  grotesque. 

38 


THE  ADAMS  FAMILY  BIBLE  39 

It  proves  rather  than  discloses  that  once,  when  she  was  but 
a  young  girl,  Margaret  Miiller  had  wonderfully  molded  arms 
and  shoulders,  regular  features  and  enchanting  eyes.  But 
that  is  all  the  picture  shows.  In  the  photograph  is  no  hint 
of  her  mellow  voice,  of  her  eager  expression  arid  of  the 
smoldering  fires  of  passion,  ambition  and  purpose  that 
smoked  through  those  gay,  bewitching  eyes.  The  old-fash 
ioned  frizzled  hair  on  her  forehead,  the  obvious  pose  of  her 
hand  with  its  cheap  rings,  the  curious  cut  of  her  dress,  made 
after  that  travesty  of  the  prevailing  mode  which  country 
papers  printed  in  their  fashion  columns,  the  black  court- 
plaster  beauty  spot  on  her  cheek  and  the  lace  fichu  draped 
over  her  head  and  bare  shoulders,  all  stand  out  like  grinning 
gargoyles  that  keep  much  of  the  charm  she  had  in  those  days 
imprisoned  from  our  eyes  to-day.  So  the  picture  alone  is  of 
no  great  service.  Nor  will  the  clipping  tell  much.  It  only 
records : 

"Miss  Margaret  Miiller,  daughter  of  the  late  Herman  Miiller  of 
Spring  Township,  this  county,  will  teach  school  in  District  18,  the 
Adams  District  in  Prospect  Township,  this  fall  and  winter.  She  will 
board  with  the  family  of  ye  editor." 

Now  the  reader  must  know  that  Margaret  Miiller 's  eyes 
had  been  turned  to  Harvey  as  to  a  magnet  for  three  years. 
She  had  chosen  the  Adams  district  school  in  Prospect  Town 
ship,  because  the  Adams  district  school  was  nearer  than  any 
other  school  district  to  Harvey;  she  had  gone  to  the  Adamses 
to.  board  because  the  little  bleak  house  near  the  Wahoo  was 
the  nearest  house  in  the  district  to  Harvey  and  to  a  social 
circle  which  she  desired  to  enter — the  best  that  Harvey  of 
fered. 

She  saw  Grant,  a  rough,  ruddy,  hardy  lad,  of  her  own  time 
of  life,  moving  in  the  very  center  of  the  society  she  cherished 
in  her  dreams,  and  Margaret  had  no  gay  inadvertence  in  her 
scheme  of  creation.  So  when  the  lank,  strapping,  red-headed 
boy  of  a  man's  height,  with  a  man's  shoulders  and  a  child's 
heart,  started  to  Harvey  for  high  school  every  morning,  as 
she  started  to  teach  her  country  school,  he  carried  with  him, 
beside  his  lunch,  a  definite  impression  that  Margaret  was  a 
fine  girl.  Often,  indeed,  he  thought  her  an  extraordinarily 
fine  girl.  Tales  of  prowess  he  brought  back  from  the  Harvey 


40  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

High  School,  and  she  listened  with  admiring  face.  For  they 
related  to  youths  whose  names  she  knew  as  children  of  the 
socially  elect. 

A  part  of  her  admiration  for  Grant  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
Grant  had  leaped  the  social  gulf — deep  even  then  in  Harvey 
— between  those  who  lived  on  the  hill,  and  the  dwellers  in 
the  bottoms  near  the  river. 

This  instinctively  Margaret  Miiller  knew,  also — though  per 
haps  unconsciously — that  even  if  they  lived  in  the  bottoms, 
the  Adamses  were  of  the  aristoi;  because  they  were  friends 
of  the  Nesbits,  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  of  Maryland  was  the  fountain 
head  of  all  the  social  glory  of  Harvey.  Thus  Margaret 
Miiller  of  Spring  Township  came  to  camp  before  Harvey  for 
a  lifetime  siege,  and  took  her  ground  where  she  could  aim 
straight  at  the  Nesbits  and  Kollanders  and  Sandses  and 
Mortons  and  Calvins.  With  all  her  banners  flying,  banners 
gaudy  and  beautiful,  banners  that  flapped  for  men  and 
sometimes  snapped  at  women,  she  set  her  forces  down  before 
Harvey,  and  saw  the  beleaguered  city  through  the  portals 
of  Grant's  fine,  wide,  blue  eyes,  within  an  easy  day's  walk 
of  her  own  place  in  the  world.  So  she  hovered  over  Grant, 
played  her  brown  eyes  upon  him,  flattered  him,  uncon 
sciously  as  is  the  way  of  the  female,  when  it  would  win  favor, 
and  because  she  was  wise,  wiser  than  even  her  own  head 
knew,  she  cast  upon  the  youth  a  strange  spell. 

Those  were  the  days  when  Margaret  Miiller  came  first  to 
early  bloom.  They  were  the  days  when  her  personality  was 
too  big  for  her  body,  so  it  flowed  into  everything  she  wore ; 
on  the  tips  of  every  ribbon  at  her  neck,  she  glowed  with  a 
kind  of  electric  radiance.  A  flower  in  her  hair  seemed  as 
much  a  part  of  her  as  the  turn  of  her  cleft  chin.  A  bow  at 
her  bosom  was  vibrant  with  her.  And  to  Grant  even  the 
things  she  touched,  after  she  was  gone,  thrilled  him  as  though 
they  were  of  her. 

Now  the  pages  that  are  to  follow  in  this  chapter  are  not 
written  for  him  who  has  reached  that  grand  estate  where  he 
may  feel  disdain  for  the  feverish  follies  of  youth.  A  lad  may 
be  an  ass;  doubtless  he  is.  A  maid  may  be  as  fitful  as  the 
west  wind,  and  in  the  story  of  the  fitfulness  and  folly  of  the 
man  and  the  maid,  there  is  vast  pathos  and  pain,  from  which 


THE  ADAMS  FAMILY  BIBLE  41 

pathos  and  pain  we  may  learn  wisdom.  Now  the  strange 
part  of  this  story  is  not  what  befell  the  youth  and  the  maid ; 
for  any  tragedy  that  befalls  a  youth  and  a  maid,  is  natural 
enough  and  in  the  order  of  things,  as  Heaven  knows  well. 
The  strange  part  of  this  story  is  that  Mary  and  Amos  Adams 
were,  for  all  their  high  hopes  of  the  sunrise,  like  the  rest  of  us 
in  this  world — only  human;  stricken  with  that  inexplicable 
parental  blindness  that  covers  our  eyes  when  those  we  love 
are  most  needing  our  care. 

Yet  how  could  they  know  that  Grant  needed  their  care? 
Was  he  not  in  their  eyes  the  fairest  of  ten  thousand  ?  They 
enshrined  him  in  a  kind  of  holy  vision.  It  seems  odd  that  a 
strapping,  pimple-faced,  freckled,  red-headed  boy,  loud 
mouthed  and  husky-voiced,  more  or  less  turbulent  and  gener 
ally  in  trouble  for  his  insistent  defense  of  his  weaker  play 
mates — it  seems  odd  that  such  a  boy  could  be  the  center  of 
such  grand  dreams  as  they  dreamed  for  their  boy.  Yet  there 
was  the  boy  and  there  were  the  dreams.  If  he  wrote  a  com 
position  for  school  that  pleased  his  parents,  they  were  sure 
it  foretold  the  future  author,  and  among  her  bundle  of  notes 
for  the  Book,  his  mother  has  cherished  the  manuscript  for  his 
complete  works.  If  at  school  Friday  afternoon,  he  spoke  a 
piece,  "trippingly  on  the  tongue,"  they  harkened  back  over 
his  ancestry  to  find  the  elder  Adams  of  Massachusetts  who 
was  a  great  orator.  When  he  drove  a  nail  and  made  a  credit 
able  bobsled,  they  saw  in  him  a  future  architect  and  stored  the 
incident  for  the  Romance  that  was  to  be  biography.  When 
he  organized  a  base-ball  club,  they  saw  in  him  the  budding 
leadership  that  should  make  him  a  ruler  of  men.  Even 
Grant's  odd  mania  to  take  up  the  cause  of  the  weak— often 
foolish  causes  that  revealed  a  kind  of  fanatic  chivalry  in  him 
— Mary  noted  too;  and  saw  the  youth  a  mailed  knight  in  the 
Great  Battle  that  should  precede  and  usher  in  the  sunrise. 

Jasper  was  a  little  boy  and  his  parents  loved  him  dearly; 
but  Grant,  the  child  of  their  honeymooning  days,  held  their 
hearts.  And  so  their  vanity  for  him  became  a  kind  of  mellow 
madness  that  separated  them  from  a  commonsense  world. 
And  here  is  a  curious  thing  also— the  very  facts  that  were 
making  Grant  a  leader  of  his  fellows  should  have  warned 
Mary  and  Amos  that  their  son  was  setting  out  on  his  journey 


42  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

from  the  heart  of  his  childish  paradise.  He  was  growing 
tall,  strong,  big- voiced,  with  hands,  broad  and  muscular,  that 
made  him  a  baseball  catcher  of  a  reputation  wider  than  the 
school-grounds,  yet  he  had  a  child's  quick  wit  and  merry 
heart.  Such  a  boy  dominated  the  school  as  a  matter  of 
course,  yet  so  completely  had  his  parents  daubed  their  eyes 
with  pride  that  they  could  not  see  that  his  leadership  in 
school  came  from  the  fact  that  a  man  was  rising  in  him — the 
far-casting  shadow  of  a  virility  deep  and  significant  as  des 
tiny  itself.  They  could  not  see  the  man's  body;  they  saw 
only  the  child's  heart.  It  was  natural  that  they  should  ask 
themselves  what  honor  could  possibly  come  to  the  house  of 
Adams  or  to  any  house,  for  that  matter,  further  than  that 
which  illumined  it  when  Grant  came  home  to  announce  that 
he  had  been  elected  President  of  the  senior  class  in  the 
Harvey  High  School  and  would  deliver  the  valedictory  ad 
dress  at  commencement.  When  Mary  and  Amos  learned 
that  news,  they  had  indeed  found  the  hero  for  their  book. 
After  that,  even  his  cousin,  Morty  Sands,  home  from  college 
for  a  time,  little,  wiry,  agile,  and  with  a  face  half  ferret  and 
half  angel,  even  Morty,  who  had  an  indefinite  attachment  for 
glowing  exuberant  Laura  Nesbit,  felt  that  so  long  as  Grant 
held  her  attention — great,  hulking,  noisy,  dominant  Grant — 
even  Morty  arrayed  in  his  college  clothes,  like  Solomon,  would 
have  to  wait  until  the  fancy  for  Grant  had  passed.  So 
Morty  backed  Grant  with  all  his  pocket  money  as  a  ball 
player  while  he  fluttered  rather  gayly  about  Ave  Calvin — 
and  always  with  an  effect  of  inadvertence. 

Now  if  a  lad  is  an  ass — and  he  is — how  should  a  poor  jack 
be  supposed  to  know  of  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  ?  For  we 
must  remember  that  early  youth  has  been  newly  driven  from 
the  heart  of  that  paradise  wherein  there  is  no  good  and  evil. 
He  gropes  in  darkness  as  he  comes  nearer  the  gates  of  his 
paradise,  through  an  unchartered  wilderness.  But  to  Mary 
and  Amos,  Grant  seemed  to  be  wandering  in  the  very  midst 
of  his  Eden.  They  did  not  realize  how  he  was  groping  and 
stumbling,  nor  could  they  know  what  a  load  he  carried — 
this  ass  of  a  lad  coming  toward  the  gate  of  the  Garden.  In 
those  times  when  he  sat  in  his  room,  trying  to  show  his  soul 
bashfully  to  Laura  Nesbit  as  he  wrote  to  her  in  Maryland 


THE  ADAMS  FAMILY  BIBLE  43 

at  school,  Grant  felt  always,  over  and  about  him,  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  spell  of  Margaret  Miiller,  yet  he  did  not 
know  what  the  spell  was.  He  wrestled  with  it  when  finally 
he  came  rather  dimly  to  sense  it,  and  tried  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  ungainly  soul  to  be  loyal  to  the  choice  of  his 
heart,  His  will  was  loyal,  yet  the  smiles,  the  eyes,  the  soft 
tempting  face  of  Margaret  always  were  near  him.  Furious 
storms  of  feeling  swayed  him.  For  youth  is  the  time  of 
tempest.  In  our  teens  come  those  floods  of  soul  stuff  through 
the  gates  of  heredity,  swinging  open  for  the  last  time  in  life, 
floods  that  bring  into  the  world  the  stores  of  the  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart  from  outside  ourselves;  floods  stored  in 
Heaven's  reservoir,  gushing  from  the  almost  limitlessly  deep 
springs  of  our  ancestry;  floods  which  draw  us  in  resistless 
currents  to  our  destinies.  And  so  the  ass,  laden  with  this  re 
lay  of  life  from  the  source  of  life,  that  every  young,  blind 
ass  brings  into  the  world,  floundered  in  the  flood. 

Grant  thought  his  experience  was  unique.  Yet  it  is  the 
common  lot  of  man.  To  feel  his  soul  exposed  at  a  thousand 
new  areas  of  sense ;  to  see  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth — 
strange,  mysterious,  beautiful,  unfolding  to  his  eyes ;  to  smell 
new  scents;  to  hear  new  sounds  in  the  woods  and  fields; 
to  look  open-eyed  and  wondering  at  new  relations  of  things 
that  unfold  in  the  humdrum  world  about  him,  as  he  flees  out 
of  the  blind  paradise  of  childhood;  to  dream  new  dreams; 
to  aspire  to  new  heights,  to  feel  impulses  coming  out  of  the 
dark  that  tremble  like  the  blare  of  trumpets  in  the  soul, — 
this  is  the  way  of  youth. 

With  all  his  loyalty  for  Laura  Nesbit — loyalty  that  en 
shrined  her  as  a  comrade  and  friend,  such  is  the  contradiction 
of  youth  that  he  was  madly  jealous  of  every  big  boy  at  the 
country  school  who  cast  eyes  at  Margaret  Miiller.  And  be 
cause  she  was  ages  older  than  he,  she  knew  it ;  and  it  pleased 
her.  She  knew  that  she  could  make  all  his  combs  and  crests 
and  bands  and  wattles  and  spurs  glisten,  and  he  knew  in  some 
deep  instinct  that  when  she  sang  the  emotion  in  her  voice 
was  a  call  to  him  that  he  could  not  put  into  words.  Thus 
through  the  autumn,  Margaret  and  Grant  were  thrown  to 
gether  daily  in  the  drab  little  house  by  the  river.  Now  a 
boy  and  a  girl  thrown  together  commonly  make  the  speaking 


44  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A.  FOOL 

donkeys  of  comedy.  Yet  one  never  may  be  sure  that  they 
may  not  be  the  dumb  struggling  creatures  of  the  tragic  muse. 
Heaven  knows  Margaret  Miiller  was  funny  enough  in  her 
capers.  For  she  related  her  antics — her  grand  pouts,  her 
elaborate  condescensions,  her  crass  coquetry  and  her  hidings 
and  seekings — into  what  she  called  a  "case."  In  the  only 
wisdom  she  knew,  to  open  a  flirtation  was  to  have  a  "case." 
So  Margaret  ogled  and  laughed  and  touched  and  ran  and 
giggled  and  cried  and  played  with  her  prey  with  a  practiced 
lore  of  the  heart  that  was  far  beyond  the  boy's  knowledge. 
Grant  did  not  know  what  spell  vvas  upon  him.  He  did  not 
know  that  his  great  lithe  body,  his  gripping  hands,  his  firm, 
legs  and  his  long  arms  that  had  in  their  sinews  the  power 
that  challenged  her  to  wrestle  when  she  was  with  him — he 
did  not  know  what  he  meant  to  the.  girl  who  was  forever 
teasing  and  bantering  him  when  they  were  alone.  For  it 
was  only  when  Margaret  and  Grant  were  alone  or  when  no 
one  but  little  Jasper  was  with  them,  that  Margaret  indulged 
in  the  joys  of  the  chase.  Yet  often  when  other  boys  came 
to  see  her — the  country  boys  from  the  Prospect  school  dis 
trict  perhaps,  or  lorn  swains  trailing  up  from  Spring  Town 
ship — Margaret  did  not  conceal  her  fluttering  delight  in  them 
from  Mary  Adams.  So  the  elder  woman  and  the  girl  had 
long  talks  in  which  Margaret  agreed  so  entirely  with  Mary 
Adams  that  Mary  doubted  the  evidence  of  her  eyes.  And 
Amos  in  those  days  was  much  interested  in  certain  transcen 
dental  communications  coming  from  his  Planchette  board 
and  purporting  to  be  from  Emerson  who  had  recently  passed 
over.  So  Amos  had  no  eyes  for  Margaret  and  Mary  was 
fooled  by  the  girl's  fine  speech.  Yet  sometimes  late  at  night 
when  Margaret  was  coming  in  from  a  walk  or  a  ride  with  one 
of  her  young  men,  Mary  heard  a  laugh — a  high,  hysterical 
laugh — that  disquieted  Mary  Adams  in  spite  of  all  Margaret's 
fair  speaking.  But  never  once  did  Mary  connect  in  her  mind 
Margaret's  wiles  with  Grant.  Such  is  the  blindness  of 
mothers ;  such  is  the  deep  wisdom  of  women ! 

All  the  while  Grant  floundered  more  hopelessly  into  the 
quicksand  of  Margaret's  enchantment,  and  when  he  tried  to 
write  to  Laura  Nesbit,  half-formed  shames  fluttered  and 
flushed  across  his  mind.  So  often  he  sat  alone  for  long  night 


THE  ADAMS  FAMILY  BIBLE  45 

hours  in  his  attic  bedroom  in  vague  agonies  and  self  accusa 
tions,  pen  in  hand,  trying  to  find  honest  words  that  would 
fill  out  his  tedious  letter.  Being  a  boy  and  being  not  en 
tirely  outside  the  gate  of  his  childish  paradise,  he  did  not 
understand  the  shadow  that  was  clouding  his  heart. 

But  there  came  one  day  when  the  gate  closed  and  looking 
back,  he  saw  the  angel — the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword. 
Then  he  knew.  Then  he  saw  the  face  that  made  the  shadow 
and  that  day  a  great  trembling  came  into  his  soul,  a  black 
ness  of  unspeakable  woe  came  over  him,  and  he  was  ashamed 
of  the  light.  After  that  he  never  wrote  to  Laura  Nesbit. 

In  May  Margaret's  school  closed,  and  the  Adamses  asked 
her  to  remain  with  them  for  the  summer,  and  she  consented 
rather  listlessly.  The  busy  days  of  the  June  harvest  com 
bined  with  the  duties  of  printing  a  newspaper  made  their 
Sunday  visits  with  the  Nesbits  irregular.  It  was  in  July  that 
Mrs.  Nesbit  asked  for  Margaret,  and  Mary  Adams  remem 
bered  that  Margaret,  whose  listlessness  had  grown  into  sul- 
lenness,  had  found  some  excuse  for  being  absent  whenever 
the  Nesbits  came  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  the  Adamses. 
Then  in  August,  when  Amos  came  home  one  night,  he  saw 
Margaret  hurry  from  the  front  porch.  He  went  into  the 
house  and  heard  Mary  and  Grant  sobbing  inside  and  heard 
Mary's  voice  lifted  in  prayer,  with  agony  in  her  voice.  It 
was  no  prayer  for  forgiveness  nor  for  mercy,  but  for  guid 
ance  and  strength,  and  he. stepped  to  the  bedroom  and  saw 
the  two  kneeling  there  with  Margaret's  shawl  over  the  chair 
where  Mary  knelt.  There  he  heard  Mary  tell  the  story  of 
her  boy's  shame  to  her  God. 

Death  and  partings  have  come  across  that  threshold  during 
these  three  decades.  Amos  Adams  has  known  anguish  and 
has  sat  with  grief  many  times,  but  nothing  ever  has  cut  him 
to  the  heart  like  the  dead,  hopeless  woe  in  Mary's  voice  as 
she  prayed  there  in  the  bedroom  with  Grant  that  August 
night.  A  terrible  half-hour  came  when  Mary  and  Amos 
talked  with  Margaret.  For  over  their  shame  at  what  their 
son  had  done,  above  their  love  for  him,  even  beyond  their 
high  hope  for  him,  rose  their  sense  of  duty  to  the  child  who 
was  coming.  For  the  child  they  spent  the  passion  of  their 
shame  and  love  and  hope  as  they  pleaded  with  Margaret  for 


46  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

a  child's  right  to  a  name.  But  she  had  hardened  her  heart. 
She  shook  her  head  and  would  not  listen  to  their  plead 
ings.  Then  they  sent  Grant  to  her.  It  is  not  easy  to  say 
which  was  more  dreadful,  the  impudent  smile  which  she 
turned  to  the  parents  as  she  shook  her  head  at  them,  or  the 
scornful  laugh  they  heard  when  Grant  sat  with  her.  That 
was  a  long  and  weary  night  they  spent  and  the  sun  rose  in 
the  morning  under  a  cloud  that  never  was  lifted  from  their 
hearts. 

In  the  six  or  seven  sordid,  awful  weeks  that  followed  before 
Keiiyon  was  born,  they  turned  for  comfort  and  for  help  to 
Dr.  Nesbit.  They  made  his  plan  to  save  the  child's  good 
name,  their  plan.  Of  course — the  Adamses  were  selfish. 
They  felt  a  blight  was  on  their  boy's  life.  They  could  not 
understand  that  in  Heaven  there  is  neither  marriage  nor 
giving  in  marriage;  that  when  God  sends  a  soul  through 
the  gates  of  earth  it  comes  in  joy  even  though  we  greet  it  in 
sorrow.  Their  gloom  should  have  been  lighted;  part  of  its 
blackness  was  their  own  vain  pride  in  Grant.  Yet  they  were 
none  the  less  tender  with  Margaret,  and  when  she  went  down 
into  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  Mary  went  with  her  and  stood 
and  supported  the  girl  in  the  journey. 

When  Doctor  Nesbit  was  climbing  into  the  buggy  at  the 
gate,  Grant,  standing  by  the  hitching-post,  said:  "Doctor — 
sometime — when  we  are  both  older — I  mean  Laura —  He 
got  no  further.  The  Doctor  looked  at  the  boy's  ashen  face, 
and  knew  the  cost  of  the  words  he'was  speaking.  He  stopped, 
reached  his  hand  out  to  Grant  and  touched  his  shoulder.  "I 
think  I  know,  Grant — some  day  I  shall  tell  her. ' '  He  got  into 
the  buggy,  looked  at  the  lad  a  moment  and  said  in  his  high, 
squeaky  voice:  "Well,  Grant,  boy,  you  understand  after 
all  it's  your  burden — don't  you?  Your  mother  has  saved 
Margaret's  good  name.  But  son — son,  don't  you  let  the 
folks  bear  that  burden. ' '  He  paused  a  moment  further  and 
sighed  :  ' '  Well,  good-by,  kid — God  help  you,  and  make  a 
man  of  you,"  and  so  turning  his  cramping  buggy,  he  drove 
away  in  the  dusk. 

Thus  came  Kenyon  Adams,  recorded  in  the  family  Bible  as 
the  third  son  of  Mary  and  Amos  Adams,  into  the  wilderness 
of  this  world. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  MARGARET  MULLER  DWELLS  IN  MARBLE  HALLS  AND 
HENRY  FENN  AND  KENYON  ADAMS  WIN  NOTABLE  VICTORIES 

THE  world  into  which  Kenyon  Adams  came  was  a  busy 
and  noisy  and  ruthless  world.  The  prairie  grass  was 
leaving  Harvey  when  Grant  Adams  came,  and  the 
meadow  lark  left  in  the  year  that  Jasper  came.  When  Ken- 
yon  entered,  even  the  blue  sky  that  bent  over  it  was  threat 
ened.  For  Dr.  Nesbit  returning  from  the  Adamses  the 
evening  that  Kenyon  came  to  Harvey  found  around  the  well- 
drill  at  Jamey  McPherson 's  a  great  excited  crowd.  Men 
were  elbowing  each  other  and  craning  their  necks,  and  wag 
ging  their  heads  as  they  looked  at  the  core  of  the  drill.  For 
it  contained  unmistakably  a  long  worm  of  coal.  And  that 
night  saw  rising  over  Harvey  such  dreams  as  made  the  angels 
sick ;  for  the  dreams  were  all  of  money,  and  its  vain  display 
and  power.  And  when  men  rose  after  dreaming  those 
dreams,  they  swept  little  Jamey  McPherson  away  in  short 
order.  For  he  had  not  the  high  talents  of  the  money  maker. 
He  had  only  persistence,  industry  and  a  hopeful  spirit  and 
a  vague  vision  that  he  was  discovering  coal  for  the  common 
good.  So  when  Daniel  Sands  put  his  mind  to  bear  upon  the 
worm  of  coal  that  came  wriggling  up  from  the  drilled  hole 
on  Jamey 's  lot,  the  worm  crawled  away  from  Jamey  and 
Jamey  went  to  work  in  the  shaft  that  Daniel  sank  on  his 
vacant  lot  near  the  McPherson  home.  The  coal  smoke  from 
Daniel  Sands 's  mines  began  to  splotch  the  blue  sky  above 
the  town,  and  Kenyon  Adams  missed  the  large  leisure  and 
joyous  comraderie  that  Grant  had  seen;  indeed  the  only 
leisurely  person  whom  Kenyon  saw  in  his  life  until  he  was — 
Heaven  knows  how  old — was  Rhoda  Kollander.  The  hum 
and  bustle  of  Harvey  did  not  ruffle  the  calm  waters  of  her 
soul.  She  of  all  the  women  in  Harvey  held  to  the  early 
custom  of  the  town  of  going  out  to  spend  the  day. 

47 


48  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

''So  that  Margaret's  gone,"  she  was  saying  to  Mary  Adams 
sometime  during  a  morning  in  the  spring  after  Kenyon  was 
born.  "Law  me — I  wouldn't  have  a  boarder.  I  tell  John, 
the  sanctity  of  the  home  is  invaded  by  boarders  these  days ; 
and  her  going  out  to  the  dances  in  town  the  way  she  does,  I 
sh'd  think  you'd  be  glad  to  be  alone  again,  and  to  have  your 
own  little  flock  to  do  for.  And  so  Grant's  going  to  be  a 
carpenter — well,  well !  He  didn't  take  to  the  printing  trade, 
did  he?  My,  my!"  she  sighed,  and  folded  her  hands  above 
her  apron — the  apron  which  she  always  put  on  after  a  meal, 
as  if  to  help  with  the  dishes,  but  which  she  never  soiled  or 
wrinkled — "I  tell  John  I'm  so  thankful  our  little  Fred  has 
such  a  nice  place.  He  waits  table  there  at  the  Palace,  and 
gets  all  his  meals — such  nice  food,  and  can  go  to  school  too, 
and  you  wouldn't  believe  it  if  I'd  tell  you  all  the  nice  men 
he  meets — drummers  and  everything,  and  he's  getting  such 
good  manners.  I  tell  John  there's  nothing  like  the  kind  of 
folks  a  boy  is  with  in  his  teens  to  make  him.  And  he  sees 
Tom  Van  Dorn  every  day  nearly  and  sometimes  gets  a  dime 
for  serving  him,  and  now,  honest,  Mary,  you  wouldn  't  believe 
it,  but  Freddie  says  the  help  around  the  hotel  say  that 
Mauling  girl  at  the  cigar  stand  thinks  Tom 's  going  to  marry 
her,  but  law  me — he 's  aiming  higher  than  the  Maulings.  The 
old  man  is  going  to  die — did  you  know  it?  They  came  for 
John  to  sit  up  with  him  last  night.  John's  an  Odd  Fellow, 
you  know.  But  speaking  of  that  Margaret,  you  know  she's 
a  friend  of  Violet's  and  slips  into  the  cigar  stand  sometimes 
and  Violet  introduces  Margaret  to  some  nice  drummers.  And 
I  heard  John  say  that  when  Margaret  gets  this  term  of  school 
taught  here,  the  Spring  Township  people  have  made  Doc 
Jim  get  her  a  job  in  the  court  house — register  of  deeds  office. 
But  I  tell  John — law  me,  you  men  are  the  worst  gossips! 
Talk  about  women  ! ' ' 

Little  Kenyon  in  his  crib  was  restless,  and  Mary  Adams 
was  clattering  the  dishes,  so  between  the  two  evils,  Mrs. 
Kollander  picked  up  the  child,  and  rocked  him  and  patted 
him  and  then  went  on :  "I  was  over  and  spent  the  day  with 
the  Sandses  the  other  day.  Poor  woman,  she's  real  puny. 
Ann's  such  a  pretty  child  and  Mrs.  Sands  says  that  Morty's 
not  goin'  back  to  college  again.  And  she  says  he  just  moons 


MARGARET  MULLER  49 

around  Laura  Nesbit.  Seems  like  the  boy's  got  no  sense. 
Why,  Laura's  just  a  child— she's  Grant's  age,  isn't  she— not 
more'  than  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and  Morty  must  be  nearly 
twenty-three.  My — how  they  have  sprung  up.  I  tell  John 
—why,  I'll  be  thirty-six  right  soon  now,  arid  here  I've  worked 
and  slaved  my  youth  away  and  I'll  be  an  old  woman  before 
we  know  it."  She  laughed  good  naturedly  and  rocked  the 
fretting  child.  ''Law  me,  Mary  Adams,  I  sh'd  think  you'd 
want  Grant  to  stay  with  George  Brotherton  there  in  the 
cigar  stand,  instead  of  carpentering.  Such  elegant  people  he 
can  meet  there,  and  such  reiined  influences  since  Mr.  Brother- 
ton's  put  in  books  and  newspapers,  and  he  could  work  in  the 
printing  office  and  deliver  the  Kansas  City  and  St.  Louis  and 
Chicago  dailies  for  Mr.  Brotherton,  and  do  so  much  better 
than  he  can  carpentering.  I  tell  John,  if  we  can  just  keep 
our  boy  among  nice  people  until  he's  twenty-five,  he'll  stay 
with  'em.  Now  look  at  Lide  Bowman.  Mary  Adams,  we 
know  she  was  a  smart  woman  until  she  married  Dick  and 
now  just  see  her — living  down  there  with  the  shanty  trash 
and  all  those  ignorant  foreigners,  and  she's  growing  like  'em. 
She's  lost  two  of  her  babies,  and  that  seems  to  be  weighing 
on  her  mind,  and  I  can't  persuade  her  to  pick  up  and  move 
out  of  there.  It's  like  being  in  another  world.  And  Mary 
Adams— let  me  tell  you— Casper  Herdicker  has  gone  into  the 
mine.  Yes,  sir,  he  closed  his  shop  and  is  going  to  work  in 
the  mine,  because  he  can  make  three  dollars  a  day.  But  law 
me!  you'll  not  see  Hildy  Herdicker  moving  down  there. 
She'll  keep  her  millinery  store  and  live  with  the  white  folks." 

The  dishes  were  put  away,  and  in  the  long  afternoon 
Mary  Adams  sat  sewing  as  Rhoda  Kollander  rambled  on. 
For  the  third  time  Rhoda  came  back  to  comment  upon  the 
fact  that  Grant  Adams  had  quit  working  in  the  printing 
office — a  genteel  trade,  and  had  stopped  delivering  papers 
for  Mr.  Brotherton 's  newspaper  stand— a  rather  high  voca 
tion,  and  was  degrading  himself  by  learning  the  carpenter's 
trade,  when  Mary  Adams  cut  into  the  current  of  the  stream 
of  talk. 

"Well,  my  clear,  it  was  this  way.  There  are  two  reasons 
why  Grant  is  learning  the  carpenter's  trade.  In  the  first 
place,  the  boy  has  some  sort  of  a  passion  to  cast  his  lot  among 


50  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  poor.  He  feels  they  are  neglected  and — well,  he  has  a 
sort  of  a  fierce  streak  in  him  to  fight  for  the  under  doer, 
and—  " 

"Well,  law  me,  Mary — don't  I  know  that!  Hasn't 
Freddie  told  me  time  and  again  how  Grant  used  to  fight  for 
Freddie  when  he  was  a  little  boy  and  the  big  boys  plagued 
him.  Grant  whipped  the  whole  school  for  teasing  a  little 
half-witted  boy  once — did  you  know  that?"  Mary  Adams 
shook  her  head.  "Well,  he  did,  and — well  now,  isn't  that 
nice.  1  can  see  just  how  he  feels!"  And  she  could.  Never 
lived  a  more  sympathetic  soul  than  Rhoda.  And  as  she 
rocked  she  said:  "Of  course,  if  that's  the  reason — law  me, 
Mary,  you  never  can  tell  how  these  children  are  going  to  turn 
out.  Why,  I  tell  John—" 

"And  the  other  reason  is,  Rhoda,  that  he  is  earning  two 
dollars  a  day  as  a  carpenter's  helper,  and  since  Kenyon  came 
we  seem  to  be  miserably  hard  pushed  for  money."  Mary 
Adams  stopped  and  then  went  on  as  one  carefully  choosing 
her  words:  "And  since  Margaret  has  gone  to  board  over 
at  the  other  side  of  the  school  district,  and  we  don't  have  her 
board  money — why  of  course — " 

"Why  of  course,"  echoed  Mrs.  Kollander,  "of  course.  I 
tell  John  he's  been  in  a  county  office  now  twenty  years, 
drawing  all  the  way  from  a  thousand  to  three  thousand  a 
year — and  what  have  we  got  to  show  for  it?  I  scrimp  and 
pinch  and  save,  and  John  does  too — but  law  me — it  seems 
like  the  way  times  are — "  Amos  Adams,  standing  at  the 
door,  heard  her  and  cut  in : 

"I  was  talking  the  other  night  with  George  Washington 
about  the  times,  and  they're  coming  around  all  right."  The 
man  fumbled  his  sandy  beard,  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to  re 
member  something  and  went  on:  "Let's  see,  he  wrote: 
'Peas  and  potatoes  preserve  the  people,'  and  the  next  day, 
everything  in  the  market  dropped  but  peas  and  potatoes." 
He  nodded  a  wise  head.  "They  think  that  planchette  is  non 
sense,  but  how  do  they  account  for  coincidences  like  that! 
And  now  tell  me  some  news  for  the  Tribune."  The  two  sat 
talking  well  into  the  twilight  and  when  Rhoda  pulled  up  her 
chair  to  the  supper  table,  the  editor's  notebook  was  full. 

Grant  appeared,  an  ox-shouldered,  red-haired,  bass-voiced 


MARGARET  MULLER  51 

boy  with  ham-like  hands;  Jasper  came  in  from  school  full 
of  the  town's  adventure  into  coal  and  the  industries,  and  his 
chatter  trickled  into  the  powerful  but  slowly  spoken  insist 
ence  of  Mrs.  Kollander 's  talk  and  was  lost  and  swept  finally 
into  silence.  After  supper  Grant  retired  to  a  book  from  the 
Sea-side  Library,  borrowed  of  Mr.  Brotherton  from  stock— 
"Sesame  and  Lilies"  was  its  title.  Jasper  plunged  into  his 
bookkeeping  studies  and  by  the  wood  stove  in  the  sitting- 
room  Rhoda  Kollander  held  her  levee  until  bedtime  sent  her 

home.  , 

During  the  noon  hour  the  next  day  in  Mr.  Brotherton  s 
cio-ar  store  and  news  stand,  the  walnut  bench  was  filled  that 
he  had  just  installed  for  the  comfort  of  his  customers.  At 
one  end,  was  Grant  Adams  who  had  hurried  up  from  the 
mines  to' buy  a  paper-bound  copy  of  Carlyle's  "French  Revo 
lution";  next  to  him  sat  deaf  John  Kollander  smoking  his 
noon  cigar,  and  beside  Kollander  sat  stuttering  Kyle  Perry, 
thriftily  sponging  his  morning  Kansas  City  Times  over  Dr. 
Nesbit's  shoulder.  The  absent  brother  always  was  on  the 
griddle  at  Mr.  Brotherton 's  amen  corner,  and  the  burnt  offer- 
in^  of  the  moment  was  Henry  Fenn.  He  had  just  broken 
over  a  protracted  drouth— one  of  a  year  and  a  half— and 
the  group  was  shaking  sad  heads  over  the  county  attorney  s 
downfall.  The  doctor  was  saying,  "It's  a  disease,  just  as 
the  'ladies,  God  bless  'em'  will  become  a  disease  with  Tom 
Van  Dorn  if  he  doesn't  stop  pretty  soon— a  nervous  disease 
and  sooner  or  later  they  will  both  go  down.  Poor  Henry— 
Bedelia  and  I  noticed  him  at  the  charity  ball  last  night ;  he 


"A  trifle  polite— a  wee  bit  too  punctilious  for  these  lati 
tudes,"  laughed  Brotherton  from  behind  the  counter. 

"I  was  going  to  say  decorative— what  Mrs.  Nesbit  calls 
ornate— kind  of  rococco  in  manner,"  squeaked  the  doctor, 
and  sighed.  "And  yet  I  can  see  he's  still  fighting  his  devil 
—still  trying  to  keep  from  going  clear  under." 

"It's  a  sh-sh-sh-a-ame  that  ma-a-an  should  have  th-that 
kind  of  a  d-d-d-devil  in  him— is-isis-n 't  it?"  said  Kyle  Perry, 
and  John  Kollander,  who  had  been  smoking  in  peace,  blurted 
out,  "What  else  can  be  expected  under  a  Democratic  admin 
istration?  Of  course,  they'll  return  the  rebel  flags.  They  11 


52  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

pension  the  rebel  soldiers  next!"  He  looked  around  for 
approval,  and  the  smiles  of  the  group  would  have  lured  him 
further  but  Tom  Van  Dorri  came  swinging  through  the  door 
with  his  princely  manner,  and  the  Doctor  rose  to  go.  He 
motioned  George  Brotherton  to  the  rear  of  the  room  and  said 
gently : 

"George — old  man  Mauling  died  an  hour  ago ;  John  Dexter 
and  I  were  there  at  the  last.     And  John  sent  word  for  me 
to  have  you  get  your  choir  out— so  I'll  notify  Mrs.  Nesbit. 
Dexter  said  he  was  a  lodge  member  with  you — what  lodge 
George?" 

"Odd  Fellow,"  returned  the  big  man,  then  asked,  "Pall 
bearer?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Doctor.  "There's  no  one  else  much 
but  the  lodge  in  his  case.  You  will  sing  him  to  sleep  with 
your  choir  and  tuck  him  in  as  pall-bearer  as  you've  been 
doing  for  the  dead  folks  ever  since  you  came  to  town."  The 
Doctor  turned  to  go,  "Meet  to-night  at  the  house  for  choir 
practice,  I  suppose?" 

Brotherton  nodded,  and  turned  to  take  a  bill  from  Tom 
Van  Dorn,  who  had  pocketed  a  handful  of  cigars  and  a  num 
ber  of  papers. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  Henry,  Tom,"  remarked 
Mr.  Brotherton,  as  he  handed  back  the  change. 

"He's  b-back-sl-slidden,"  prompted  Perry. 

"Oh,  well — it's  all  right.  Henry  has  his  weaknesses — we 
all  have  our  failings.  But  drunk  or  sober  he  danced  a  dozen 
times  last  night  with  that  pretty  school  teacher  from  Pros 
pect  Township."  Grant  looked  up  from  his  book,  as  Van 
Dorn  continued,  "Gorgeous  creature — "  he  shut  his  eyes 
and  added:  "Don't  pity  Henry  when  he  can  get  a  woman 
like  that  to  favor  him  ! ' ' 

As  John  Kollander  thundered  back  some  irrelevant  com 
ment  on  the  moment's  politics,  Van  Dorn  led  Brotherton  to 
the  further  end  of  the  counter  and  lowering  his  voice  said : 

"You  know  that  Mauling  girl  at  the  Palace  cigar 
counter?" 

As  Brotherton  nodded,  Van  Dorn,  dropping  his  voice 
to  a  whisper,  said:  "Her  father's  dead — poor  child — she's 
been  spending  her  money — she  hasn't  a  cent.  I  know ;  I  have 


MARGARET  MULLER  53 

been  talking  to  her  more  or  less  for  a  year  or  so.  Which 
one  of  your  lodges  does  the  old  man  belong  to,  George?" 

"When  the  big  man  said:  "Odd  Fellows/'  Van  Dorn 
reached  into  an  inner  coat  pocket,  brought  out  some  bills 
and  slipping  them  to  Brotherton,  so  that  the  group  on  the 
bench  in  the  corner  could  not  see,  Van  Dorn  mumbled : 

''Tell  her  folks  this  came  from  the  lodge — poor  little 
creature,  she's  their  sole  support." 

As  Van  Dorn  lighted  his  cigar  at  the  alcohol  burner  Henry 
Fenn  turned  into  the  store.  Fenn  stood  among  them  and 
smiled  his  electric  smile,  that  illumined  his  lean,  drawn  face 
and  said,  "Here,"  a  pause,  then,  "I  am,"  another  pause, 
and  a  more  searching  smile,  * '  I  am  again  ! ' ' 

Mr.  Brotherton  looked  up  from  the  magazine  counter 
where  he  was  sorting  out  Century s,  and  Harpers  and  Scrib- 
ners  from  a  pile:  "Say — "  he  roared  at  the  newcomer, 
"Well — say,  Henry — this  won't  do.  Come — take  a  brace; 
pull  yourself  together.  We  are  all  for  you. ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  answered  Fenn,  smiling  out  of  some  incandescence 
in  his  heart,  "that's  just  it:  You're  all  for  me.  The  boys 
over  at  Riley's  saloon  are  all  for  me.  Mother — God  bless 
her,  down  at  the  house  is  for  me  so  strong  that  she  never 
flinches  or  falters.  I  can  get  every  vote  in  the  delegation, 
but  my  own  ! ' ' 

"Oh,  Henry,  why  these  tears?"  sneered  Van  Dorn. 
"We've  all  got  to  have  our  fun." 

"I  presume,  Tom,"  snapped  Fenn,  "that  you've  got  your 
little  affairs  of  the  heart  so  that  you  can  take  'em  or  let 
'em  alone!"  But  to  the  group  in  the  amen  corner,  Fenn 
lifted  up  his  head  in  shame.  He  looked  like  a  whipped  dog. 
One  by  one  the  crowd  disappeared,  all  but  Grant,  who  was 
bending  over  his  book,  and  deaf  John  Kollander. 

Fenn  and  Brotherton  went  back  to  Brotherton 's  desk  and 
Fenn  asked,  "Did  I— George,  was  it  pretty  bad  last  night? 
God  she — she — that  Miiller  girl — what  a  wonderful  woman 
she  is.  George,  do  you  suppose — "  Fenn  caught  Grant's  eyes 
wandering  toward  them.  The  name  of  M!argaret  Miiller  had 
reached  his  ears.  But  Fenn  went  on,  lowering  his  voice: 
"I  honestly  believe  she  could,  if  any  one  could."  Fenn  put 
his  lean,  tapering  hand  upon  Brotherton 's  broad  fat  paw, 


54  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  smiled  a  quaint,  appreciative  smile,  frank  and  gentle. 
It  was  one  of  those  smiles  that  carried  agreement  with  what 
had  been  said,  and  with  everything  that  might  be  said. 
Brotherton  took  up  the  hallelujah  chorus  for  Margaret  with : 
* t  Fine  girl — bright,  keen — well  say,  did  you  know  she 's  buy 
ing  the  books  here  of  me  for  the  chautauqua  course  and  is 
trying  for  a  degree — something  in  her  head  besides  hairpins 
— well,  say!" 

He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  and  brought 
down  his  great  hand  on  his  knee.  "Well,  say — observe  me 
the  prize  idiot!  Get  the  blue  ribbon  and  pin  it  on  your 
Uncle  George.  Look  here  at  me  overlooking  the  main  bet. 
"Well,  say,  Henry — here  are  the  specifications  of  one  large 
juicy  plan.  Funeral  to-morrow — old  man  Mauling ;  obliging 
party  to  die.  Uncle  George  and  the  angel  choir  to  officiate 
with  Uncle  George  doubling  in  brass  as  pall-bearer.  The 
new  Mrs.  Sands,  our  bell-voiced  contralto,  is  sick :  also  oblig 
ing  party  to  be  sick.  Need  new  contralto:  Miiller  girl  has 
voice  like  morning  star,  or  stars,  as  the  case  may  be." 
Fenn  flashed  on  his  electric  smile,  and  rose,  looking  a  ques 
tion. 

' 'That's  the  idea,  Henry,  that  finally  wormed  its  way  into 
my  master  mind,"  cried  Brotherton,  laughing  his  big  laugh. 
''That's  what  I  said  before  I  spoke.  You  are  to  drive  into 
Prospect  Township  this  evening —  Hey,  Grant,"  called 
Brotherton  to  the  boy  on  the  bench  in  the  Amen  corner, 
"Does  that  pretty  school  ma'am  board  with  you  people?" 
And  when  Grant  shook  his  head,  Brotherton  went  on:  "Yes 
— she's  moved  across  the  district  I  remember  now.  Well, 
anyway,  Henry,  you're  to  drive  into  Prospect  Township 
this  evening  and  produce  one  large,  luscious  brunette  con 
tralto  for  choir  practice  at  General  Nesbit's  piano  at  eight 
o'clock  sharp."  He  stood  facing  Fenn  whose  eyes  were  glow 
ing.  The  lurking  devil  seemed  to  slink  away  from  him. 
Brotherton,  seeing  the  change,  again  burst  into  his  laugh  and 
bringing  Fenn  to  the  front  of  the  store  roared:  "Well,  say 
— Hennery — are  there  any  flies  on  your  Uncle  George's 
scheme?"' 

Grant  began  buttoning  his  coat.  Fenn,  free  for  the  mo 
ment  of  his  devil,  was  happy,  and  Brotherton  looked  at  the 


MARGARET  MULLER  55 

two  and  cried,  * l  Now  get  out  of  here — the  both  of  you :  you  're 
spiling  trade.  And  say,"  called  Brotherton  to  Fenn,  "bring 
her  up  to  the  Palace  Hotel  for  supper,  and  we  11  fill  her  full 
of  rich  food,  so 's  she  can  sing — well,  say  ! ' ' 

That  evening  going  home  Grant  met  Margaret  and  Fenn 
at  a  turn  of  the  road,  and  before  they  noticed  him,  he  saw  a 
familiar  look  in  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  at  the  man,  saw  how 
closely  they  were  sitting  in  the  buggy,  saw  a  score  of  little 
things  that  sent  the  blood  to  his  face  and  he  strode  on  past 
them  without  speaking.  That  night  he  slipped  into  the  room 
where  the  baby  lay  playing  with  his  toes,  and  there,  stand 
ing  over  the  little  fellow,  the  youth's  eyes  filled  with  tears 
and  for  the  first  time  he  felt  the  horror  of  the  baby  lifting 
from  him.  He  did  not  touch  the  child,  but  tiptoed  from 
the  room  ashamed  to  be  seen. 

To  Margaret  Miiller,  the  baby 's  mother,  that  night  opened 
a  new  world.  To  begin  with,  it  marked  her  entrance  through 
the  portals  of  the  Palace  Hotel  as  a  guest.  She  had  some 
times  flitted  into  the  office  with  its  loose,  tiled  floors  and 
shabby,  onyx  splendor  to  speak  to  Miss  Mauling  of  the  news 
stand;  then  she  came  as  a  fugitive  and  saw  things  only  fur 
tively.  But  this  night  Margaret  walked  in  through  the  "La 
dies  Entrance,"  sat  calmly  in  the  parlor,  while  Mr.  Fenn 
wrote  her  name  upon  the  register,  and  after  some  delirious 
moments  of  grand  conversation  with  Mr.  Fenn  in  the  gilded 
hall  of  pleasure  with  its  chenille  draperies  and  its  apoplectic 
furniture  all  puffed  to  the  bursting  point,  she  had  walked 
with  Mr.  Fenn  through  the  imposing  halls  of  the  wonderful 
edifice,  like  a  rescued  princess  in  a  fairy  tale,  to  the  dining 
room,  there  to  meet  Mr.  Brotherton,  and  the  eldest  Miss  Mor 
ton,  who  recently  had  been  pla}7ing  the  cabinet  organ  at 
funerals  to  guide  Mr.  Brotherton 's  choir.  Now  the  eldest 
Miss  Morton  was  not  antique,  being  only  a  scant  fifteen  in 
short  dresses  and  pig  tails.  But  at  the  urgent  request  of 
Mr.  Brotherton,  and  "to  fill  out  the  table,  and  to  take  the 
wrinkles  out  of  her  apron  by  a  square  meal  at  the  Palace," 
as  Mr.  Brotherton  explained  to  the  Captain,  she  had  been 
primped  and  curled  and  scared  by  her  sisters  and  her  fa 
ther,  and  sent  along  with  Mr.  Brotherton — possibly  in  his 
great  ulster  pocket,  and  she  sat  breathing  irregularly  and 


56  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

looking  steadily  into  her  lap  in  great  awe  and  trepidation. 

Margaret  M  tiller,  in  the  dining-room  whose  fame  had 
spread  to  the  outposts  of  Spring  township  and  to  the  fast 
nesses  of  Prospect,  behaved  with  scarcely  less  constraint 
than  the  eldest  Miss  Morton.  She  gazed  at  the  beamed  ceil 
ing,  the  high  wainscoting,  the  stenciled  walls,  the  frescoes 
upon  the  panels,  framed  by  the  beams,  the  wide  sideboard, 
the  glittering  glass  and  the  plated  silver  service,  and  if  her 
eyes  had  not  been  so  beautiful  they  would  have  betrayed 
her  wonder  and  admiration.  As  it  was,  they  showed  an  ec 
stasy  of  delight  that  made  them  shine  arid  when  Henry 
Ferin  saw  them  he  looked  at  Mr.  Brotherton,  and  Mr.  Broth- 
erton  looked  at  Mr.  Fenn,  and  the  moon  in  Mr.  Brotherton 's 
face  beamed  a  lively  approval.  Moreover  the  cigar  salesman 
from  Leavenworth  and  a  hardware  drummer  from  St.  Louis 
and  a  drygoods  salesman  from  Chicago  and  a  travelling  audi 
tor  for  the.  Midland  saw  Margaret's  eyes  and  they  too  looked 
at  one  another  and  gave  their  unqualified  approval.  Li 
other  years — in  later  years — when  she  was  at  Bertolini's 
Grand  Palace  in  Naples  or  in  some  of  the  other  Grand  Pal 
aces  of  other  effete  and  luxurious  capitals  of  Europe,  Mar 
garet  used  to  think  of  that  first  meal  at  the  Palace  house  in 
Harvey  and  wonder  what  in  the  world  really  did  become  of 
the  dozen  fried  oysters  that  she  so  innocently  ordered.  She 
could  see  them  looming  up,  a  great  pyramid  of  brown 
batter,  garnished  with  cress,  and  she  knew  that  she  had 
blundered.  But  she  did  not  see  the  wink  that  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  gave  Mr.  Fenn  nor  the  glare  that  Mr.  Fenn  gave  Mr. 
Brotherton ;  so  she  faced  it  out  and  whether  she  ate  them  or 
left  them,  she  never  could  recall. 

But  it  was  a  glorious  occasion  in  spite  of  the  fried  oysters. 
What  though  the  tiles  of  the  floor  of  the  Palace  were  cracked ; 
what  though  the  curtains  sagged,  and  the  furniture  was 
shabby,  and  the  walls  were  faded  and  dingy;  what  though 
the  great  beams  in  the  dining-room  were  dirty  and  the 
carpets  in  the  halls  bedraggled,  and  the  onyx  gapping  in 
great  cracks  upon  the  warped  walls  of  the  office ;  what  though 
the  paint  had  faded  and  the  varnish  cracked  all  over  the 
house !  To  Margaret  Miiller  and  also  to  the  eldest  Miss 
Morton,  who  only  managed  to  breathe  below  her  locket  when 


MARGARET  MULLER  57 

they  were  under  the  stars,  it  was  a  dream  of  marble  halls, 
and  the  frowsy  Freddie  Kollander  and  the  other  waiter  who 
brought  in  the  food  on  thick,  cracked  oblong  dishes  were 
vassals  and  serfs  by  their  sides. 

When  they  started  up  Sixth  Avenue,  the  eldest  Miss 
Morton  was  trying  to  think  of  everything  that  had  happened 
to  tell  the  younger  Misses  Morton,  Martha  and  Ruth — what 
they  ate  and  what  Miss  Miiller  wore,  and  what  Freddie  Kol 
lander  who  waited  on  them,  and  also  went  to  high  school, 
did  when  he  saw  her,  and  how  Mr.  Fenn  acted  when  Miss 
Miiller  got  the  big  platter  of  oysters,  and  what  olives  tasted 
like  and  if  anything  had  been  cooked  in  the  Peerless  Cooker 
that  father  had  just  sold  Mr.  Paxton  and  in  general  why 
the  spirit  of  mortal  should  be  proud. 

But  Miss  Miiller  entertained  no  such  thoughts.  She  was 
treading  upon  the  air  of  some  elysium,  and  she  took  and 
held  Mr.  Femrs  arm  with  an  unnecessary  tightness  and 
began  humming  the  tune  that  told  of  the  girl  who  dreamed 
she  dwelt  in  marble  halls ;  and  then,  as  they  left  the  thick  of 
the  town  and  were  walking  along  the  board  sidewalks  that 
lead  to  Elm  Crest  on  Elm  Street,  they  all  fell  to  singing  that 
tune;  and  as  one  good  tune  deserved  another,  and  as  they 
were  going  to  practice  the  funeral  music  that  evening,  they 
sang  other  tunes  of  a  highly  secular  nature  that  need  not  be 
enumerated  here.  And  as  Miss  Miiller  had  a  substantial 
dinner  folded  snugly  within  her,  and  the  ambition  of  her  life 
was  looming  but  a  few  blocks  ahead  of  her,  she  walked  closer 
to  Mr.  Fenn,  county  attorney  in  and  for  Greeley  county,  than 
was  really  necessary.  So  when  Mr.  Brotherton  walked 
alongside  with  the  eldest  Miss  Morton  stumbling  intermit 
tently  over  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  walking  in  the 
dry  weeds  beside  it,  Miss  Miiller  put  some  feeling  into  her 
singing  voice  and  they  struck  what  Mr.  Brotherton  was 
pleased  to  call  a  barbershop  chord,  and  held  it  to  his  delight. 
And  the  frosty  air  rang  with  their  voices,  and  the  rich 
tremulous  voice  of  the  young  woman  thrilled  with  passion 
too  deep  for  words.  So  deep  was  it  that  it  might  have 
stirred  the  hovering  soul  of  the  dead  whose  dirges  they 
were  to  sing  and  brought  back  to  him  the  time  when  he 
too  had  thrilled  with  youth  and  its  inexpressible  joy. 


58  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Up  the  hill  they  go,  arm  in  arm,  with  fondling  voices 
uttering  the  unutterable.  And  now  they  turn  into  a  long, 
broad  avenue  of  elms,  of  high,  plumey  elms  trimmed  and 
tended,  mulched  and  cultivated  for  nearly  twenty  years,  the 
apple  of  one  man's  eye;  great  elms  set  in  blue  grass,  branch 
ing  only  at  the  tops,  elms  that  stand  in  a  grove  around  an 
irregular  house,  elms  that  shade  a  broad  stone  walk  leading 
up  to  a  wide,  hospitable  door.  The  young  people  ring. 
There  is  a  stirring  in  the  house,  Margaret  Miiller's  heart  is 
a-flutter — and  the  eldest  Miss  Morton  wonders  whether  Laura 
or  the  hired  girl  will  open  the  door,  and  in  a  moment — enter 
Margaret  Miiller  into  the  home  of  the  Nesbits. 

As  the  wide  door  opens,  a  glow  of  light  and  life  falls 
upon  the  young  people.  Standing  in  the  broad  reception 
room  is  Doctor  Nesbit,  with  his  finger  in  a  book — a  poetry 
book  if  you  please — and  before  him  with  his  arm  about  her 
and  her  head  beneath  his  chin  stands  his  daughter.  Coming 
down  the  stairs  is  Mrs.  Bedelia  Satterthwaite  Nesbit — of  the 
Maryland  Satterthwaites — tall,  well-upholstered,  with  large 
features  and  a  Roman  nose  and  with  the  makings  of  a  double 
chin,  if  she  ever  would  deign  to  bend  her  queenly  head, 
and  finally  with  the  pomp  of  a  major  general  in  figure  and 
mien. 

She  ignores  the  debris  of  the  carpenters  who  have  been 
putting  in  the  hardwood  floors,  without  glancing  at  it,  and 
walking  to  her  guests,  welcomes  them  with  regal  splendor, 
receiving  Miss  Miiller  with  rather  obvious  dignity.  Mrs. 
Nesbit  in  those  days  was  a  woman  of  whom  the  doctor  said, 
"There  is  no  foolishness  about  Bedelia."  The  jovial  Mr. 
Brotherton  attempts  some  pleasant  hyperbole  of  speech, 
which  the  hostess  ignores  and  the  Doctor  greets  with  a 
smile.  Mrs.  Nesbit  leads  the  way  to  the  piano,  being  a  woman 
of  purpose,  and  whisks  the  eldest  Miss  Morton  upon  a 
stool  and  has  the  hymn  book  opened  in  less  time  than  it 
takes  to  tell  how  she  did  it.  The  Doctor  and  Laura  stand 
watching  the  company,  and  perhaps  they  stand  awkwardly; 
which  prompts  Mr.  Brotherton  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart 
to  say,  ' '  Doctor,  won 't  you  sit  and  hear  the  music  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Nesbit  looks  around,  sees  the  two  figures  standing  near 
the  fire  and  replies,  "No,  the  Doctor  won't." 


MARGARET  MULLER  59 

To  which  he  chirps  a  mocking  echo — "No,  the  Doctor 
won't." 

Mr.  Brotherton  glances  at  Mr.  Fenn,  and  the  Doctor  sees 
it.  "That's  all  right,  boys — that's  all  right ;  I  may  be  satrap 
of  Harvey  and  have  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  my 
subjects,  but  that's  down  town.  Out  here,  I'm  the  minority 
report." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  opens  the  hymn  book,  smooths  the  fluttering 
leaves  and  says  without  looking  toward  the  Doctor :  "I  sup 
pose  we  may  as  well  begin  now."  And  she  begins  beating 
the  time  with  her  index  finger  and  marking  the  accents  with 
her  foot. 

As  they  sing  they  can  hear  the  gentle  drone  of  the  Doctor's 
soft  voice  in  the  intervals  in  the  music,  reading  in  some 
nearby  room  to  his  daughter.  They  are  reading  Tenny 
son's  "Maud"  and  sometimes  in  the  emotional  passages  his 
voice  breaks  and  his  eyes  fill  up  and  he  cannot  go  on.  At 
such  times,  the  daughter  puts  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and 
often  wipes  her  tears  away  upon  his  coat  and  they  are  silent 
until  he  can  begin  again.  When  his  throat  cramps,  she 
pats  his  cheek  and  they  sit  dreaming  for  a  time  and  the 
dreams  they  dream  and  the  dreams  they  read  differ  only  in 
that  the  poetry  is  made  with  words. 

It  is  a  proud  night  for  Margaret  Miiller.  She  has  come 
into  a  new  world — the  world  of  her  deep  desire.  Mrs. 
Nesbit  sees  the  girl's  wandering  eyes,  taking  note  of  the 
furniture,  as  one  making  an  inventory.  No  article  of  the 
vast  array  of  vases  and  jars  and  plaques  and  jugs  and 
statuettes  and  grotesque  souvenirs  of  far  journeys  across  the 
world,  nor  etchings  nor  steel  engravings  nor  photographs  of 
Roman  antiquities  nor  storied  urns  nor  animated  busts 
escapes  the  wandering,  curious  brown  eyes  of  the  girl.  But 
in  her  vast  wonderment,  though  her  eyes  wander  far  and 
wide,  they  never  are  too  far  to  flash  back  betimes  at  Henry 
Fenn's  who  drinks  from  the  woman's  eyes  as  from  a  deep 
and  bewitching  well.  He  does  not  see  that  she  is  staring. 
But  as  the  minutes  speed,  he  knows  that  he  is  electrified  with 
alternating  currents  from  her  glowing  face  and  that  they 
bring  to  him  a  rapture  that  he  has  never  known  before. 

But  you  may  be  sure  of  one  thing :     Mrs.  Nesbit — she  that 


60  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

was  Satterthwaite  of  the  Maryland  Satterthwaites — she  sees 
what  is  in  the  wind.  She  is  not  wearing  gold-rimmed  nose 
glasses  for  her  health.  Her  health  is  exceptionally  good. 
And  what  is  more  to  the  point,  as  they  are  singing,  Mrs. 
Nesbit  gives  George  Brotherton  a  look — one  of  the  genuine 
old  Satterthwaite  looks  that  speak  volumes,  and  in  effect  it 
tells  him  that  if  he  has  any  sense,  he  will  take  Henry  Fenn 
home  before  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself.  And  the  eldest 
Miss  Morton,  swinging  her  legs  under  the  piano  stool  and 
drumming  away  to  Mrs.  Nesbit 's  one-  and  two-  and  three- 
and  four-ands,  peeps  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  and 
sees  Miss  Miiller  gobbling  Mr.  Fenn  right  down  without 
chewing  him,  and  whoopee  but  Mrs.  Nesbit  is  biting  nails, 
and  Mr.  Brotherton,  he  can't  hardly  keep  his  face  straight 
from  laughing  at  all,  and  if  Ruth  and  Martha  ever  tell 
she  will  never  tell  them  another  thing  in  the  world.  And 
she  mustn't  forget  to  ask  Mrs.  Nesbit  if  she's  used  the 
Peerless  Cooker  and  if  she  has,  will  she  please  say  something 
nice  about  it  to  Mrs.  Ahab  Wright,  for  Papa  is  so  anxious 
to  sell  one  to  the  Wrights! 

It  is  nearly  nine  o'clock.  Mr.  Fenn  has  been  eaten  up 
these  twenty  times.  The  wandering  eyes  have  caressed  the 
bric-a-brac  over  and  over.  Mrs.  Nesbit 's  tireless  index  finger 
has  marked  the  time  while  the  great  hands  of  the  tall  hall 
clock  have  crept  around  and  halfway  around  again.  They 
are  upon  the  final  rehearsal  of  it. 

"Other  refuge  have  I  none,"  says  the  voice  and  the  eyes 
say  even  more  and  are  mutely  answered  by  another  pair  of 
eyes. 

''Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee,"  says  the  deep  passion 
ate  voice,  and  the  eyes  say  things  even  more  tender  to  eyes 
that  falter  only  because  they  are  faint  with  joy.  In  the 
short  interval  the  moving  finger  of  Mrs.  Nesbit  goes  up,  and 
then  comes  a  rattling  of  the  great  front  door.  A  moment 
later  it  is  opened  and  the  flushed  face  of  Grant  Adams  is 
seen.  He  is  collarless,  and  untidy ;  he  rushes  into  the  room 
crying,  "0,  doctor — doctor,  come — our  baby — he  is  choking." 
The  youth  sees  Margaret,  and  with  passion  cries :  ' '  Kenyon 
— Kenyon — the  baby,  he  is  dying;  for  God's  sake — Mag, 
where  is  the  Doctor?" 


MARGARET  MULLER  61 

In  an  instant  the  little  figure  of  the  Doctor  is  in  the  room. 
He  stares  at  the  red-faced  boy,  and  quick  as  a  flash  he  sees 
the  open  mouth,  the  dazed,  gaping  eyes,  the  graying  face 
of  Margaret  as  she  leans  heavily  upon  George  Brotherton. 
In  another  instant  the  Doctor  sees  her  rally,  grapple  with 
herself,  bring  back  the  slow  color  as  if  by  main  strength,  and 
smile  a  hard  forced  smile,  as  the  boy  stands  in  impotent 
anguish  before  them. 

"I  have  the  spring  wagon  here,  Doctor — hurry — hurry 
please,"  expostulates  the  youth,  as  the  Doctor  climbs  into 
his  overcoat,  and  then  looking  at  Margaret  the  boy  exclaims 
wildly — ''Wouldn't  you  like  to  go,  too,  Maggie?  Wouldn't 
you?" 

She  has  hold  of  herself  now  and  replies:  "No,  Grant, 
I  don't  think  your  mother  will  need  me,"  but  she  almost 
loses  her  grip  as  she  asks  weakly,  "Do  you?" 

In  another  second  they  are  gone,  the  boy  and  the  Doctor, 
out  into  the  night,  and  the  horse's  hoofs,  clattering  fainter 
and  fainter  as  they  hurry  down  the  road,  bring  to  her  the 
sound  of  a  little  heart  beating  fainter  and  fainter,  and  she 
holds  on  to  her  soul  with  a  hard  hand. 

Before  long  Margaret  Miiller  and  Henry  Fenn  are  alone 
in  a  buggy  driving  to  Prospect  township. 

She  sees  above  her  on  the  hill  the  lights  in  the  great 
house  of  her  desire.  And  she  knows  that  down  in  the  valley 
where  shimmers  a  single  light  is  a  little  body  choking  for 
breath,  fighting  for  life. 

"Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee,"  swirls  through  her 
brain,  and  she  is  cold — very  cold,  and  sits  aloof  and  will  not 
talk,  cannot  talk.  Ever  the  patter  of  the  horse's  feet  in 
the  valley  is  borne  upward  by  the  wind,  and  she  feels  in  her 
soul  the  faltering  of  a  little  heart.  She  dares  not  hope  that 
it  will  start  up  again ;  she  cannot  bear  the  fear  that  it  will 
stop. 

So  she  leaves  the  man  who  knew  her  inmost  soul  but  an 
hour  ago ;  hardly  a  word  she  speaks  at  parting ;  hardly  she 
turns  to  him  as  she  slips  into  the  house,  cold  and  shiv 
ering  with  the  sound  of  every  hoof-beat  on  the  road  in  the 
night,  bringing  her  back  to  the  helpless  soul  fluttering  in 
the  little  body  that  once  she  warmed  in  hers. 


62  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Thus  the  watchers  watched  the  fighting  through  the  night, 
the  child  fighting  so  hard  to  live.  For  life  is  dear  to  a 
child — even  though  its  life  perpetuates  shame  and  brings 
only  sorrow — life  still  is  dear  to  that  struggling  little  body 
there  under  that  humble  roof,  where  even  those  that  love  it, 
and  hover  in  agony  over  it  in  its  bed  of  torture,  feel  that  if 
it  goes  out  into  the  great  mystery  from  whence  it  came, 
it  will  take  a  sad  blot  from  the  world  with  it.  And  so 
hope  and  fear  and  love  and  tenderness  and  grief  are  all 
mingled  in  the  horror  that  it  may  die,  in  the  mute  question 
that  asks  if  death  would  not  be  merciful  and  kind.  And  all 
night  the  watchers  watched,  and  the  watcher  who  was  absent 
was  afraid  to  pray,  and  as  the  daylight  came  in,  wan  and 
gray,  the  child  on  the  rack  of  misery  sank  to  sleep,  and  smiled 
a  little  smile  of  peace  at  victory. 

Then  in  the  pale  dawn,  a  weary  man,  trudging  afoot 
slowly  up  the  hill  into  Harvey,  met  another  going  out  into 
the  fields.  The  Doctor  looked  up  and  was  astonished  to  see 
Henry  Fenn,  with  hard  drawn  features,  trembling  limbs,  hol 
low  eyes  and  set  lips.  He  too  had  been  fighting  hard  and  he 
also  had  won  his  victory.  The  Doctor  met  the  man's  furtive, 
burning  eyes  and  piped  out  softly: 

' '  Stick  to  it,  Henry — by  God,  stick  hard, ' '  and  trudged  on 
into  the  morning  gloaming. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ENTER  THE  BEAUTY   AND   CHIVALRY   OF   HARVEY;   ALSO   HEREIN 
WE   BREAK   OUR   FIRST   HEART 

TOWNS  are  curiously  like  individuals.  They  take  their 
character  largely  from  their  experiences,  laid  layer 
upon  layer  in  their  consciousnesses,  as  time  moves, 
and  though  the  experiences  are  seemingly  forgotten,  the  re 
sults  of  those  experiences  are  ineffaceably  written  into  the 
towns.  Four  or  five  towns  lie  buried  under  the  Harvey 
that  is  to-day,  each  one  possible  only  as  the  other  upholds  it, 
and  all  inexorably  pointing  to  the  destiny  of  the  Harvey 
that  is,  and  to  the  many  other  Harveys  yet  to  rise  upon  the 
townsite— the  Harveys  that  shall  be.  There  was,  of  course, 
heredity  before  the  town  was ;  the  strong  New  England  strain 
of  blood  that  was  mixed  in  the  Ohio  Valley  and  about  the 
Great  Lakes  and  changed  by  the  upheaval  of  the  Civil  War. 
Then  came  the  hegira  across  the  Mississippi  and  the  infant 
town  in  the  Missouri  Valley— the  town  of  the  pioneers— 
the  town  that  only  obeyed  its  call  and  sought  instinctively 
the  school  house,  the  newspaper,  orderly  government,  real 
estate  gambling  and  "the  distant  church  that  topt  the 
neighboring  hill."  In  the  childhood  of  the  town  the  cattle 
trail  appeared  and  with  the  cattle  trade  came  wild  days  and 
sad  disorder.  But  the  railroad  moved  westward  and  the 
cattle  trail  moved  with  the  railroad  and  then  in  the  early 
adolescence  of  the  town  came  coal  and  gas  and  oil.  And  sud 
denly  Harvey  blossomed  into  youth. 

It  was  a  place  of  adventure;  men  were  made  rich  over 
night  by  the  blow  of  a  drill  in  a  well.  Then  was  the  time 
for  that  equality  of  opportunity  to  come  which  the  pioneers 
sought  if  ever  it  was  coming.  But  alas,  even  in  matters 
of  sheer  luck,  the  fates  played  favorites.  In  those  fat 
years  it  began  raining  red-wheeled  buggies  on  Sundays, 
and  smart  traps  drawn  by  horses  harnessed  gaudily  in 

63 


64  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

white  or  tan  appeared  on  the  streets.  Morty  Sands  often 
hired  a  band  from  Omaha  or  Kansas  City,  and  held  high 
revel  in  the  Sands  opera  house,  where  all  the  new  dances 
of  that  halcyon  day  were  tripped.  The  waters  of  the 
Wahoo  echoed  with  the  sounds  of  boating  parties — also 
frequently  given  by  Morty  Sands,  and  his  mandolin  twit 
tered  gayly  on  a  dozen  porches  during  the  summer  even 
ings  of  that  period.  It  was  Morty  who  enticed  Henry 
Fenn  into  the  second  suit  of  evening  clothes  ever  dis 
played  in  Harvey,  though  Tom  Van  Dorn  and  George  Broth- 
erton  appeared  a  week  later  in  evening  clothes  plus  white 
gloves  and  took  much  of  the  shine  from  Henry  and  Morty 's 
splendor.  Those  were  the  days  when  Nate  Perry  and  young 
Joe  Calvin  and  Freddie  Kollander  organized  the  little  crowd 
— the  Spring  Chickens,  they  called  themselves — and  the  little 
crowd  was  wont  to  ape  its  elders  and  peek  through  the  fence 
at  the  grandeur  of  the  grown-ups.  But  alas  for  the  little 
crowd,  month  by  month  it  was  doomed  to  see  its  little  girls 
kidnaped  to  bloom  in  the  upper  gardens.  Thus  Emma 
Morton  went;  thus  Ave  Calvin  disappeared,  and  so  Laura 
Nesbit  vanished  from  the  Spring  Chickens  and  appeared  in 
Morty  Sands 's  bower!  Doctor  Nesbit  in  those  days  called 
Morty  the  "head  gardener  in  the  ' rosebud  garden  of  girls !'  ' 
And  a  lovely  garden  it  was.  Of  course,  it  was  more  or  less 
democratic;  for  every  one  was  going  to  be  rich;  every  one 
was  indeed  just  on  the  verge  of  riches,  and  lines  of  caste 
were  loosely  drawn.  For  wealth  was  the  only  line  that 
marked  the  social  differences.  So  when  Henry  Ferin,  the 
young  county  attorney,  in  his  new  evening  clothes  brought 
Margaret  Miiller  of  the  Register  of  Deeds  office  to  Morty 
Sands 's  dances,  Margaret  had  whatever  social  distinction  her 
wits  gave  her ;  which  upon  the  whole  was  as  much  distinction 
as  Rhoda  Kollander  had  whose  husband  employed  Mar 
garet.  The  press  of  the  social  duties  in  that  day  weighed 
heavily  upon  Rhoda,  who  was  not  the  woman  to  neglect  her 
larger  responsibilities  to  so  good  a  husband  as  John  Kol 
lander,  by  selfishly  staying  at  home  and  keeping  house  for 
him.  She  had  a  place  in  society  to  maintain,  that  the  flag 
of  her  country  might  not  be  sullied  by  barring  John  from 
a  county  office. 


BEAUTY  AND  CHIVALRY  OF  HARVEY        65 

The  real  queen-rose  in  the  garden  was  Laura  Nesbit.  How 
vivid  she  was !  What  lips  she  had  in  those  days  of  her  first 
full  bloom,  and  what  frank,  searching  eyes !  And  her  laugh 
— that  chimed  like  bells  through  the  merriment  of  the  youth 
that  always  was  gathered  about  her — her  laugh  could  start 
a  reaction  in  Morty  Sands  's  heart  as  far  as  he  could  hear  the 
chime.  It  was  a  matter  of  common  knowledge  in  the 
''crowd/'  that  Morty  Sands  had  one  supreme  aim  in  life:  the 
courtship  of  Laura  Nesbit.  For  her  he  lavished  clothes  upon 
himself  until  he  became  known  as  the  iridescent  dream! 
For  her  he  bought  a  high-seated  cart  of  great  price,  drawn  by 
a  black  horse  in  white  kid  harness!  For  her  he  learned  a 
whole  concert  of  Schubert's  songs  upon  the  mandolin  and  or 
ganized  a  serenading  quartette  that  wore  the  grass  smooth 
under  her  window.  For  her  candy,  flowers,  books — usually 
gift  books  with  padded  covers,  or  with  handpainted  decora 
tions,  or  with  sumptuous  engravings  upon  them  or  in  them, 
sifted  into  the  Nesbits '  front  room,  and  lay  in  a  thick  coating 
upon  the  parlor  table. 

Someway  these  votive  offerings  didn't  reach  the  heart  of 
the  goddess.  She  rode  beside  him  in  his  stanhope,  and  she 
wore  his  bouquets  and  read  his  books,  such  as  were  intended 
for  reading ;  and  alas  for  her  figure,  she  ate  his  candy.  But 
these  things  did  not  prosper  his  suit.  She  was  just  looking 
around  in  the  market  of  life.  Pippa  was  forever  passing 
through  her  heart  singing,  "God's  in  his  heaven — all's  right 
with  the  world."  She  did  not  blink  at  evil;  she  knew  it, 
abhorred  it,  but  challenged  it  with  love.  She  had  a  vague 
idea  that  evil  could  be  vanquished  by  inviting  it  out  to  dinner 
and  having  it  in  for  tea  frequently  and  she  believed  if  it 
still  refused  to  transform  itself  into  good,  that  the  thing  to 
do  with  evil  was  to  be  a  sister  to  it. 

The  closest  she  ever  came  to  overcoming  evil  with  evil  was 
when  she  spanked  little  Joe  Calvin  for  persisting  in  tying 
cans  to  the  Morton  cat's  tail,  whereupon  Morty  Sands  rose 
and  gave  the  girl  nine  rahs,  exhibiting  an  enthusiasm  that 
inspired  him  for  a  year.  So  Laura  thought  that  if  the 
spanking  had  not  helped  much  the  soul  of  little  Joe,  it  had 
put  something  worth  while  into  Morty  Sands.  The  thought 
cheered  her.  For  Morty  was  her  problem.  During  the  first 


66  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

months  after  her  return  from  boarding  school,  she  had  broken 
him — excepting  upon  minor  moonlight  relapses — of  trying  to 
kiss  her,  and  she  had  sufficiently  discouraged  his  declara 
tions  of  undying  devotion,  so  that  they  came  only  at  wed 
dings,  or  after  other  mitigating  circumstances  which,  after 
pinching  his  ear,  she  was  able  to  overlook. 

But  she  could  not  get  him  to  work  for  a  living.  He 
wouldn't  even  keep  office  hours.  Lecturing  settled  noth 
ing.  Lecturing  a  youth  in  a  black  and  gold  blazer,  duck 
trousers  and  a  silk  shirt  and  a  red  sash,  with  socks  and  hat 
to  match  his  coat,  lecturing  a  youth  who  plays  the  mandolin 
while  you  talk,  and  looks  at  you  through  hazel  eyes  with  all 
the  intelligence  of  an  affectionate  pup,  lecturing  a  youth 
who  you  know  would  be  kissing  you  at  the  moment  if  you 
weren't  twenty  pounds  heavier  and  twice  as  strong — some 
way  doesn't  arouse  enthusiasm.  So  Morty  Sands  remained 
a  problem. 

Now  an  affair  of  the  heart  when  a  man  is  in  his  twenties 
and  a  girl  is  just  passing  out  of  her  teens,  is  never  static ;  it 
is  dynamic  and  always  there  is  something  doing. 

It  was  after  one  of  Morty 's  innumerable  summer  dances  in 
the  Sands  Opera  House,  that  Fate  cast  her  dies  for  the  final 
throw.  Morty  had  filled  Laura  Nesbit's  program  scandal 
ously  full.  Two  Newports,  three  military  schottisches,  the 
York,  the  Racket — ask  grandpa  and  grammer  about  these 
dances,  ye  who  gyrate  in  to-day's  mazes — two  waltz  qua 
drilles  and  a  reel.  And  when  you  have  danced  half  the  eve 
ning  with  a  beautiful  girl,  Fate  is  liable  to  be  thumping  vig 
orously  on  the  door  of  your  heart.  So  Morty  walking  home 
under  a  drooping  August  moon  with  Laura  Nesbit  that  night 
determined  to  bring  matters  to  a  decision.  As  they  came  up 
the  walk  to  the  Nesbit  home,  the  girl  was  humming  the  tune 
that  beat  upon  his  heart,  and  almost  unconsciously  they  fell 
to  waltzing.  At  the  veranda  steps  they  paused,  and  his 
arm  was  around  her.  She  tried  to  move  away  from  him,  and 
cuffed  him  as  she  cried:  "Now  Morty — you  know — you 
know  very  well  what  I've  always — " 

"Laura — Laura — "  he  cried,  as  he  held  her  hand  to  his 
face  and  tried  to  focus  her  soul  with  his  brown  eyes, 
"Laura,"  he  faltered,  then  words  deserted  him:  the  fine 


BEAUTY  AND  CHIVALRY  OF  HARVEY         67 

speech  he  had  planned  melted  into,  "  O,  my  dear — my  dear ! ' ' 
But  he  kept  her  hand.  The  pain  and  passion  in  his  voice 
cut  into  the  girl's  heart.  She  was  not  frightened.  She  did 
not  care  to  run.  She  did  not  even  take  his  persisting  arm 
from  about  her.  She  let  him  kiss  her  hand  reverently,  then 
she  sat  with  him  on  the  veranda  step  and  as  they  sat  she 
drew  his  arm  from  her  waist  until  it  was  hooked  in  her  arm, 
and  her  hand  held  his. 

"Oh,  I'm  in  earnest  to-night,  Laura,"  said  Morty,  grip 
ping  her  hand.  "  I  'm  staking  my  whole  life  to-night,  Laura. 
I'm  deadly — oh,  quite  deadly  serious,  Laura,  and  oh — " 

"And  I'm  serious  too,  Morty,"  said  the  girl— "just  as 
serious  as  you ! ' '  She  slipped  her  hand  away  from  his  and 
put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  gently,  almost  tenderly.  But 
the  youth  felt  a  certain  calmness  in  her  touch  that  disheart 
ened  him. 

In  a  storm  of  despair  he  spoke:  "Laura — Laura,  can't 
you  see — how  can  you  let  me  go  on  loving  you  as  I  do  until 
I  am  mad !  Can 't  you  see  that  my  soul  is  yours  and  always 
has  been!  You  can  call  it  into  heights  it  will  never  know 
without  you!  You — you — O,  sometimes  I  feel  that  I  could 
pray  to  you  as  to  God!"  He  turned  to  her  a  face  glowing 
with  a  white  and  holy  passion,  and  dropped  her  hand  from 
his  shoulder  and  did  not  touch  her  as  he  spoke.  Their  eyes 
met  steadfastly  in  a  silence.  Then  the  girl  bowed  her  head 
and  sobbed.  For  she  knew,  even  in  her  teens,  she  knew  with 
the  intuitions  that  are  old  as  human  love  upon  the  planet 
that  she  was  in  the  naked  presence  of  an  adoring  soul.  "When 
she  could  speak  she  picked  up  the  man's  soft  white  hand, 
and  kissed  it.  She  could  not  have  voiced  her  eternal  denial 
more  certainly.  And  Morty  Sands  lifted  an  agonized  face 
to  the  stars  and  his  jaws  trembled.  He  had  lighted  his  altar 
fire  and  it  was  quenched.  The  girl,  still  holding  his  hand, 
said  tenderly : 

"I'm  so  sorry — so  sorry,  Morty.  But  I  can't!  I  never — 
never — never  can!"  She  hesitated,  and  repeated,  shaking 
her  head  sadly,  "I  never,  never  can  love  you,  Morty — 
never!  And  it's  kind — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  answered  as  one  who  realizes  a  finality. 
"It's  kind  enough — yes,  I  know  you're  kind,  Laura!"  He 


68  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

stopped  and  gazed  at  her  in  the  moonlight — and  it  was  as  if 
a  flame  on  the  charred  altar  of  his  heart  had  sprung  up  for 
a  second  as  he  spoke:  "And  I  never — never  shall — I  never 
shall  love  any  one  else — I  never,  never  shall ! ' ' 

The  girl  rose.  A  moment  later  the  youth  followed  her. 
Back  into  its  sheath  under  his  countenance  his  soul  slipped, 
and  he  stood  before  the  girl  smiling  a  half  deprecatory  smile. 
But  the  girl's  face  was  racked  with  sorrow.  She  had  seen 
tragedy.  Her  pain  wounded  him  and  he  winced  in  his 
heart.  Wherefore  he  smiled  quite  genuinely,  and  stepped 
back,  and  threw  a  kiss  at  the  girl  as  he  said:  "It's  nothing, 
Laura!  Don't  mindl  It's  nothing  at  all  and  we'll  forget 
it!  Won't  we ?" 

And  turning  away,  he  tripped  down  the  walk,  leaving  her 
gazing  after  him  in  the  moonlight.  At  the  street  he  turned 
back  with  a  gay  little  gesture,  blew  a  kiss  from  his  white 
finger  tips  and  cried,  "It's  nothing  at  all — nothing  at  all!" 
And  as  she  went  indoors  she  heard  him  call,  "  It 's  nothing  at 
all!" 

She  heard  him  lift  his  whistle  to  the  tune  of  the  waltz 
quadrille,  but  she  stood  with  tears  in  her  eyes  until  the  brave 
tune  died  in  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  HOW  LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  INTO  THE 
MATERIALISM   AROUND   IT 

COAL  and  oil  and  gas  and  lead  and  zinc.  The  black 
sprite,  the  brown  sprite,  the  invisible  sprite,  the  two 
gray  sprites — elemental  sprites  they  were — destined 
to  be  bound  servants  of  man.  Yet  when  they  came  rushing  out 
of  the  earth  there  at  Harvey,  man  groveled  before  them,  and 
sold  his  immortal  soul  to  these  trolls.  Naturally  enough 
Daniel  Sands  was  the  high  priest  at  their  altar.  It  was  fit 
ting  that  a  devil  worship  which  prostrated  itself  before  coal 
and  oil  and  gas  and  lead  and  zinc  should  make  a  spider  the 
symbol  of  its  servility.  So  the  spider 's  web,  all  iron  and  steel 
in  pipes  below  ground,  all  steel  and  iron  and  copper  in  wires 
and  rails  above  ground,  spread  out  over  the  town,  over  the 
country  near  the  town,  and  all  the  pipes  and  tubes  and  rails 
and  wires  led  to  the  dingy  little  room  where  Daniel  Sands 
sat  spinning  his  web.  He  was  the  town  god.  Even  the 
1  gilded  heifer  of  Baal  was  a  nobler  one.  And  the  curious 
;  thing  about  this  orgy  of  materialism,  was  that  Harvey 
and  all  the  thousands  of  Harveys  great  and  small  that  filled 
America  in  those  decades  believed  with  all  their  hearts — 
and  they  were  essentially  kind  hearts — that  quick,  easy  and 
exorbitant  profits,  really  made  the  equality  of  opportunity 
which  every  one  desired.  They  thought  in  terms  of  democ 
racy — which  is  at  bottom  a  spiritual  estate, — and  they 
acted  like  gross  materialists.  So  they  fooled  the  world, 
while  they  deceived  themselves.  For  the  soul  of  America 
was  not  reflected  in  that  debauch  of  gross  profit  making. 
The  soul  of  America  still  aspired  for  justice;  but  in  the 
folly  of  the  day,  believed  quite  complacently  because  a  few 
men  got  rich  quick  (stupid  men  too,)  and  many  men  were 
well-to-do,  that  justice  was  achieved,  and  the  world  ready 

69 


70  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

for  the  millennium.  But  there  came  a  day  when  Harvey, 
and  all  its  kind  saw  the  truth  in  shame. 

And  life  in  Harvey  shaped  itself  into  a  vast  greedy  dream. 
A  hard,  metallic  timbre  came  into  the  soft,  high  voice  of  Dr. 
James  Nesbit,  but  did  not  warn  men  of  the  metallic  plate 
that  was  galvanizing  the  Doctor 's  soul ;  nor  did  it  disturb  the 
Doctor.  Amos  Adams  saw  the  tinplate  covering,  heard  the 
sounding  brass,  and  Mary  his  wife  saw  and  heard  too ;  but 
they  were  only  two  fools  and  the  Doctor  who  loved  them 
laughed  at  them  and  turned  to  the  healing  of  the  sick  and 
the  subjugation  of  his  county.  So  men  sent  him  to  the 
state  Senate.  Curiously  Mrs.  Nesbit — she  whom  George 
Brotherton  always  called  the  General— she  did  not  shake  the 
spell  of  the  trolls  from  her  heart.  They  were  building  wings 
and  ells  and  lean-tos  on  the  house  that  she  called  her  home, 
and  she  came  to  love  the  witchery  of  the  time  and  place  and 
did  not  see  its  folly.  Yet  there  walked  between  these  two 
entranced  ones,  another  who  should  have  awakened.  For 
she  was  young,  fresh  from  the  gods  of  life.  Her  eyes,  un 
flinching,  glorious  eyes,  should  have  seen  through  the  dream 
of  that  day.  But  they  were  only  a  girl's  eyes  and  were 
happy,  so  they  could  not  see  beyond  the  spell  that  fell  around 
them.  And  alas,  even  when  the  prince  arrived,  his  kiss  was 
poisoned  too. 

When  young  Thomas  Van  Dorn  came  to  the  Nesbit  house 
on  a  voyage  of  exploration  and  discovery — came  in  a  hand 
some  suit  of  gray,  with  hat  and  handkerchief  to  match,  and 
a  flowing  crepe  tie,  black  to  harmonize  with  his  flowing 
mustache  and  his  wing  of  fine  jet  black  hair  above  his  ivory 
tinted  face,  Laura  Nesbit  considered  him  reflectively,  and 
catalogued  him. 

"Tom,"  explained  the  daughter  to  her  father  rather  coldly 
one  morning,  after  the  young  man  had  been  reading  Swin 
burne  in  his  deep,  mellow  pipe-organ  of  a  voice  to  the  family 
until  bed-time  the  night  before,  "Tom  Van  Dorn,  father,  is 
the  kind  of  a  man  who  needs  the  influence  of  some  strong 
woman ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Nesbit  glanced  at  her  husband  furtively  and  caught 
his  grin  as  he  piped  gayly : 

"Who  also  must  carry  the  night  key!" 


LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  71 

The  three  laughed  but  the  daughter  went  on  with  the 
cataloguing:  "He  is  a  young  man  of  strong  predilections, 
of  definite  purpose  and  more  than  ordinary  intellectual 
capacity. ' ' 

"And  so  far  as  I  have  counted,  Laura,"  her  father  inter 
rupted  again,  "I  haven't  found  an  honest  hair  in  his  hand 
some  head;  though  I  haven't  completed  the  count  yet!" 
The  father  smiled  aimably  as  he  made  the  final  qualification. 

The  girl  caught  the  mother's  look  of  approval  shimmer 
ing  across  the  table  and  laughed  her  gay,  bell-like  chime. 
"O,  you've  made  a  bad  guess,  mother." 

Again  she  laughed  gayly:  "It's  not  for  me  to  open  a 
school  for  the  Direction  of  Miscalculated  Purposes.  Still," 
this  she  said  seriously,  "a  strong  woman  is  what  he  needs." 

"Not  omitting  the  latch-key,"  gibed  her  father,  and  the 
talk  drifted  into  another  current. 

The  next  Sunday  afternoon  young  Tom  Van  Dorn  ap 
peared  with  Rossetti  added  to  his  Swinburne,  and  crowded 
Morty  Sands  clear  out  of  the  hammock  so  that  Morty  had  to 
sleep  in  a  porch  chair,  and  woke  up  frequently  and  was  un 
happy.  While  the  gilded  youth  slept  the  Woman  woke  and 
listened,  and  Morty  was  left  disconsolate. 

The  shadows  were  long  and  deep  when  Tom  Van  Dorn 
rose  from  the  hammock,  closed  his  book,  and  stood  beside  the 
girl,  looking  with  a  gentle  tenderness  from  the  burning 
depths  of  his  black  eyes  into  her  eyes.  He  paused  before 
starting  away,  and  held  up  a  hand  so  that  she  could  see, 
wound  about  it,  a  flaxen  hair,  probably  drawn  from  the  ham 
mock  pillow.  He  smiled  rather  sadly,  dropped  his  eyes  to 
the  book  closed  in  his  hands,  and  quoted  softly : 

"'And  around  his  heart,  one  strangling  golden  hair!"5 

He  did  not  speak  again,  but  walked  off  at  a  great  stride 
down  the  stone  path  to  the  street.  The  next  day  Rossetti 's 
sonnets  came  to  Laura  Nesbit  in  a  box  of  roses. 

The  Sunday  following  Laura  Nesbit  made  it  a  point  to  go 
with  her  parents  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Adamses  down 
by  the  river  on  their  farm.  But  not  until  the  Nesbits  piled 
into  their  phaeton  to  leave  did  Grant  appear.  He  met  the 
visitors  at  the  gate  with  a  great  bouquet  of  woods  flowers,  say- 


72  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

ing,  "Here,  Mrs.  Nesbit — I  thought  you  might  like  them." 
But  they  found  Laura's  hands,  and  he  smiled  gratefully  at 
her  for  taking  them.  As  they  drove  off,  leaving  him  looking 
eagerly  after  them,  Dr.  Nesbit  said  when  they  were  out  of 
hearing,  "I  tell  you,  girls — there's  the  makings  of  a  man — 
a  real  man ! ' ' 

That  night  Laura  Nesbit  in  her  room  looking  at  the  stars, 
rose  and  smelled  the  woods  flowers  on  her  table  beside  some 
fading  roses. 

As  her  day  dreams  merged  into  vague  pictures  flitting 
through  her  drowsy  brain,  she  heard  the  plaintive,  trembling 
voice  of  Morty  Sands 's  mandolin,  coming  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  his  lower  whistle  taking  the  tune  while  the  E  string 
crooned  an  obligato;  he  passed  the  house,  went  down  the 
street  to  the  Mortons'  and  came  back  and  went  home  again, 
still  trilling  his  heart  out  like  a  bird.  As  the  chirping  faded 
into  the  night  sounds,  the  girl  smiled  compassionately  and 
slept. 

As  she  slept  young  Thomas  Van  Dorn  walked  alone  under 
the  elm  trees  that  plumed  over  the  sidewalks  in  those  envi 
rons  with  hands  clasped  behind  him,  occasionally  gazing 
into  the  twinkling  stars  of  the  summer  night,  considering 
rather  seriously  many  things.  He  had  come  out  to  think 
over  his  speech  to  the  jury  the  next  day  in  a  murder  case 
pending  in  the  court.  But  the  murderer  kept  sinking  from 
his  consciousness ;  the  speech  would  not  shape  itself  to  please 
him,  and  the  young  lawyer  was  forever  meeting  rather 
squarely  and  abruptly  the  vision  of  Laura  Nesbit,  who 
seemed  to  be  asking  him  disagreeable  and  conclusive  ques 
tions,  which  he  did  not  like  to  answer.  Was  she  worth  it — 
the  sacrifice  that  marriage  would  require  of  him?  Was  he 
in  love  with  her?  What  is  love  anyway?  Wherein  did  it 
differ  from  certain  other  pleasurable  emotions,  to  which  he 
was  not  a  stranger  ?  And  why  was  the  consciousness  of  her 
growing  larger  and  larger  in  his  life?  He  tried  to  whistle 
reflectively,  but  he  had  no  music  in  his  soul  and  whistling 
gave  him  no  solace. 

It  was  midnight  when  he  found  himself  walking  past  the 
Nesbit  home,  looking  toward  it  and  wondering  which  of 
the  open  windows  was  nearest  to  her.  Pie  flinched  with 


LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  73 

shame  when  he  recollected  himself  before  other  houses  gaz 
ing  at  other  windows,  and  he  unpursed  his  lips  that  were 
wont  to  whistle  a  signal,  and  went  down  the  street  shudder 
ing.  Then  after  an  impulse  in  which  some  good  angel  of  re 
morse  shook  his  teeth  to  rouse  his  soul,  he  lifted  his  face  to 
the  sky  and  would  have  cried  in  his  heart  for  help,  but 
instead  he  smiled  and  went  on,  trying  to  think  of  his  speech 
and  resolving  mightily  to  put  Laura  Nesbit  out  of  his  heart 
finally  for  the  night.  He  held  himself  to  his  high  resolve  for 
four  or  five  minutes.  It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  the  white 
clad  figure  of  the  Doctor  coming  clicking  up  the  street  with 
his  cane  keeping  time  to  a  merry  air  that  he  hummed  as  he 
walked  distracted  the  young  man.  His  first  thought  was  to 
turn  off  and  avoid  the  Doctor  who  came  along  swinging  his 
medicine  case  gayly.  But  there  rushed  over  Van  Dorn  a 
feeling  that  he  would  like  to  meet  the  Doctor.  He  recog 
nized  that  he  would  like  to  see  any  one  who  was  near  to  Her. 
It  was  a  pleasing  sensation.  He  coddled  it.  He  was  proud  of 
it ;  he  knew  what  it  meant.  So  he  stopped  the  preoccupied 
figure  in  white,  and  cried,  "Doctor — we're  late  to-night!" 

"Well,  Tom,  I've  got  a  right  to  be!  Two  more  people  in 
Harvey  to-night  than  were  here  at  five  o'clock  this  afternoon 
because  I  am  a  trifle  behindhand.  Girl  at  your  partner's 
— Joe  Calvin's,  and  a  boy  down  at  Dick  Bowman's!"  He 
paused  and  smiled  and  added  musingly,  "And  they're  as 
tickled  down  at  Dick's  as  though  he  was  heir  to  a  kingdom !" 

"And  Joe — I  suppose — not  quite — " 

"Oh,  Joe,  he's  still  in  the  barn,  I  dropped  in  to  tell  him  it 
was  a  girl.  But  he  won't  venture  into  the  house  to  see  the 
mother  before  noon  to-morrow!  Then  he'll  go  when  she's 
asleep ! ' ' 

"Dick  really  isn't  more  than  two  jumps  ahead  of  the  wolf, 
is  he,  Doctor?" 

"Well,"  grinned  the  elder  man,  "maybe  a  jump-and-a- 
half  or  two  jumps. ' ' 

The  young  man  exclaimed,  "Say,  Doctor!  I  think  it 
would  be  a  pious  act  to  make  the  fellows  put  up  fifty  dollars 
for  Dick  to-night.  I'll  just  go  down  and  raid  a  few  poker 
games  and  make  them  do  it." 

The  Doctor  stopped  him:     "Better  let  me  give  it  to  Dick 


74  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

if  you  get  it,  Tom!"  Then  he  added,  "Why  don't  you  keep 
Christian  hours,  boy?  You  can't  try  that  Yengst  case  to 
morrow  and  be  up  all  night ! ' ' 

"That's  just  what  I'm  out  here  for,  Doctor — to  get  my 
head  in  shape  for  the  closing  speech. ' ' 

"Well,"  sniffed  the  Doctor,  "I  wish  you  no  bad  luck,  but 
I  hope  you  lose.  Yengst  is  guilty,  and  you  've  no  business — 

"Doctor,"  cut  in  Van  Dorn,  "there's  not  a  penny  in  the 
Yengst  case  for  me!  He  was  a  poor  devil  in  trouble  and 
he  came  to  my  office  for  help !  Do  you  consider  the  morals 
of  your  sick  folks — whether  they  have  lived  virtuous  and 
upright  lives  when  they  come  to  you  stricken  and  in  pain? 
They're  just  sick  folks  to  you  in  your  office,  and  they're  just 
poor  devils  in  trouble  for  me. ' ' 

The  Doctor  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  sparrow-wise, 
looked  for  a  moment  at  the  young  man  and  piped,  "You're  a 
brassy  pup,  aren't  you!" 

A  second  later  the  Doctor  was  trudging  up  the  street, 
homeward,  humming  his  bee-like  song.  Van  Dorn  watched 
him  until  his  white  clothes  faded  into  the  shades  of  the  night, 
then  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  townward,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  and  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  He  forgot  the 
Yengst  case,  and  everything  else  in  the  universe  except  a 
girl's  gray  eyes,  her  radiant  face,  and  the  glory  of  her  aspir 
ing  soul.  It  was  calling  with  all  its  power  to  Tom  Van  Dorn 
to  rise  and  shine  and  take  up  the  journey  to  the  stars.  And 
when  one  hears  that  call,  whether  it  come  from  man  or  maid, 
from  friend  or  brother,  or  sweetheart  or  child,  or  from  the 
challenge  within  him  of  the  holy  spirit,  when  he  heeds  its 
call,  no  matter  where  he  is  while  he  hears,  he  walks  with 
God! 

So  it  came  to  pass  the  next  day  that  Thomas  Van  Dorn 
went  before  the  jury  and  pleaded  for  the  murderer  in  the 
Yengst  case  with  the  tongue  of  men  and  of  angels.  For  he 
knew  that  Dr.  Nesbit  was  loitering  in  the  clerk's  office,  ad 
joining  the  courtroom  to  listen  to  the  plea.  Every  fac 
ulty  of  his  mind  and  every  capacity  of  his  body  was  awake, 
and  they  said  around  the  court  house  that  it  was  "the 
speech  of  Tom's  life !"  The  Doctor  on  the  front  steps  of  the 
courthouse  met  the  young  man  in  the  daze  that  follows  an 


LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  75 

oratorical  flight,  munching  a  sandwich  to  relieve  his  brain, 
while  the  multitude  made  way  for  him  as  he  went  to  his 
office, 

"Well,  Tom — "  piped  the  Doctor  as  he  grasped  the  sweaty, 
cold  hands  of  the  young  orator,  "if  Yengst  had  been  inno 
cent  do  you  suppose  you  could  have  done  as  well  ? ' ' 

Van  Dorn  gave  his  sandwich  to  a  passing  dog,  and  took 
the  Doctor's  arm  as  they  walked  to  their  common  stairway. 
Before  they  had  walked  a  dozen  steps  the  Doctor  had  un 
folded  a  situation  in  local  politics  that  needed  attention,  and 
Van  Dorn  could  not  lead  the  elder  man  back  to  further 
praises  of  his  speech.  Yet  the  young  lawyer  knew  that  he 
had  moved  the  Doctor  deeply. 

That  night  in  his  office  Tom  Van  Dorn  and  Henry  Fenn 
sat  with  their  feet  in  the  window  sill,  looking  through  the 
open  window  into  the  moon.  In  their  discourse  they  used 
that  elaborate,  impersonal  anonymity  that  youth  engages  to 
carry  the  baggage  of  its  intimate  confidences. 

"  I've  got  to  have  a  pretty  woman,  Henry, ' '  quoth  the  law 
yer  to  his  friend,  while  the  moon  blushed  behind  a  cloud. 
"She  must  have  beauty  above  everything,  and  after  that 
good  manners,  and  after  that  good  blood." 

The  moon  came  out  and  smiled  at  Henry.  "Tom,  let  me 
tell  you  something,  I  don't  care!  I  used  to  think  I'd  be 
pickey  and  choosey.  But  I  know  my  own  heart.  I  don't 
care !  I  'm  the  kind  of  fellow,  I  guess,  who  just  gets  it  bad 
and  comes  down  all  broken  out  with  it."  He  turned  his 
glowing  smile  into  Tom  Van  Dorn's  face,  and  finding  no  quick 
response  smiled  whimsically  back  at  the  moon. 

1  *  Some  fellows  are  that  way,  Henry, ' '  assented  Van  Dorn, 
"but  not  I!  I  couldn't  love  a  servant  girl  no  matter  how 
pretty  she  was — not  for  keeps,  and  I  couldn't  love  an  ugly 
princess,  and  I'd  leave  a  bluestocking  and  elope  with  a 
chorus  girl  if  I  found  the  bluestocking  crocked  or  faded  in 
the  wash !  Yet  a  beautiful  woman,  who  remained  a  woman 
and  didn't  become  a  moral  guide — "  he  stared  brazenly  at 
the  moon  and  in  the  cloud  that  whisked  by  he  saw  a  score 
of  fancies  of  other  women  whose  faces  had  shone  there, 
and  had  passed.  He  went  on:  "Oh,  she  could  hold  me — 
she  could  hold  me — I  think ! ' ' 


76  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  street  noises  below  filled  the  pause.  Henry  rose, 
looked  eagerly  into  the  sky  and  wistfully  at  the  moon  as  he 
spoke,  "Hold  me?  Hold  me?"  he  cried.  "Why,  Tom, 
though  I'd  fall  into  hell  myself  a  thousand  times — she 
couldii 't  lose  me !  I 'd  still— still, ' '  he  faltered,  ' ' I'd  still— ' ' 
He  did  not  finish,  but  sat  down  and  putting  his  hand  on 
the  arm  of  his  friend's  chair,  he  bent  forward,  smiled  into 
the  handsome  young  face  in  the  moonlight  and  said :  "Well 
— you  know  the  kind  of  a  fool  I  am,  Tom — now ! ' ' 

' i  That 's  what  you  say,  Henry — that 's  what  you  say  now. ' ' 
Van  Dorn  turned  and  looked  at  his  friend.  "You're  stick 
ing  it  out  all  right,  Henry — against  the  rum  fiend — I  pre 
sume?  When  does  your  sentence  expire?" 

"Next  October,"  answered  Fenn. 

"Going  to  make  it  then?" 

" That's  the  understanding,"  returned  Fenn. 

"And  you  say  you've  got  it  bad,"  laughed  Tan  Dorn. 
"And  yet — say,  Henry — why  didn't  you  do  better  with  the 
jury  this  afternoon  in  the  Yengst  case  ?  Doesn  't  it — I  mean 
that  tremendous  case  you  have  on  with  the  Duchess  of  Miiller 
— doesn  't  it  put  an  edge  on  you  ?  What  was  the  matter  with 
you  to-day?" 

Fenn  shook  his  head  slowly  and  said :  "  It 's  different  with 
me.  I  just  couldn't  help  feeling  that  if  I  was  worth  any 
woman's  giving  herself — was  worth  anything  as  a  man,  I'd 
want  to  be  dead  square  with  that  Yengst  creature — and  I  got 
to  thinking,  maybe  in  his  place,  drunk  and  hungry — well, 
I  just  couldn't,  Tom — because — because  of — well,  I  wanted 
her  to  marry  a  human  being  first — not  a  county  attor 
ney!" 

"You're  a  damn  fool!"  retorted  Van  Dorn.  "Do  you 
think  you  '11  succeed  in  this  world  on  that  basis !  I  tell  you 
if  I  was  in  love  with  a  woman  I  'd  want  to  take  that  Yengst 
case  and  lay  it  before  her  as  a  trophy  I  'd  won — lay  it  before 
her  like  a  dog ! ' ' 

Fenn  hesitated.  He  disliked  to  give  pain.  But  finally 
he  said,  "I  suppose,  Tom,  I'd  like  to  lay  it  before  her — like 
a  man  ! ' ' 

"Hell's  delight!"  sneered  Van  Dorn,  and  they  turned  off 
the  subject  of  the  tender  passion,  and  went  to  considering 


LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  77 

certain  stipulations  that  Van  Dorn  was  asking  of  the  county 
attorney  in  another  matter  before  the  court. 

The  next  day  young  Thomas  Van  Dorn  began  rather 
definitely  to  prepare  his  pleading  in  still  another  suit  in  an 
other  court,  and  before  the  summer's  end,  Morty  Sands 's 
mandolin  was  wrapped  in  its  chamois  skin  bag  and  locked  in 
its  mahogany  case.  Sometimes  Morty,  whistling  softly  and 
dolefully,  would  pass  the  Nesbit  home  late  at  night,  hoping 
that  his  chirping  might  reach  her  heart;  at  times  he  made 
a  rather  formal  call  upon  the  entire  Nesbit  family,  which 
he  was  obviously  encouraged  to  repeat  by  the  elders.  But 
Morty  was  inclined  to  hide  in  the  thicket  of  his  sorrow  and 
twitter  his  heart  out  to  the  cold  stars.  Tom  Van  Dorn  per 
vaded  the  Nesbit  home  by  day  with  his  flowers  and  books 
and  candy,  and  by  night — as  many  nights  a  week  as  he  could 
buy,  beg  or  steal — by  night  he  pervaded  the  Nesbit  home  like 
an  obstinate  haunt. 

He  fell  upon  the  whole  family  and  made  violent  love  to 
the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Nesbit.  He  read  Browning  to  the  Doc 
tor  and  did  his  errands  in  politics  like  a  retrieving  dog. 
Mrs.  Nesbit  learned  through  him  to  her  great  joy  that  the 
Satterthwaite,  who  was  the  maternal  grandfather  of  the 
Tory  governor  of  Maryland,  was  not  descended  from  the  same 
Satterlee  hanged  by  King  John  in  his  war  with  the  barons, 
but  from  the  Sussex  branch  of  the  family  that  remained 
loyal  to  the  Crown.  But  Tom  Van  Dorn  wasted  no  time 
or  strength  in  foolishness  with  the  daughter  of  the  house. 
His  attack  upon  her  heart  was  direct  and  unhalting.  He 
fended  off  other  suitors  with  a  kind  of  animal  jealousy.  He 
drove  her  even  from  so  unimportant  a  family  friend  as 
Grant  Adams. 

Gradually,  as  the  autumn  deepened  into  winter  and  Tom 
Van  Dorn  found  himself  spending  more  and  more  time  in 
the  girl's  company  he  had  glimpses  of  his  own  low  estate 
through  the  contrast  forced  upon  him  daily  by  his  knowledge 
of  what  a  good  woman's  soul  was.  The  self -revelation 
frightened  him;  he  was  afraid  of  what  he  saw  inside  him 
self  in  those  days,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  'that  for  a  sea 
son  his  soul  was  wrestling  with  its  doom  for  release.  No 
make-believe  passion  was  it  that  spurred  him  forward  in  his 


78  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

attack  upon  the  heart  of  Laura  Nesbit.  Within  him,  there 
raged  the  fierce  battle  between  the  spirit  of  the  times — 
crass,  material  and  ruthless — and  the  spirit  of  things  as  they 
should  be.  It  was  the  old  fight  between  compromise  and 
the  ideal. 

As  for  the  girl,  she  was  in  that  unsettled  mind  in  which 
young  women  in  their  first  twenties  often  find  themselves 
when  sensing  by  an  instinct  new  to  them  the  coming  of  a 
grown-up  man  with  real  matrimonial  intentions.  Given  a 
girl  somewhat  above  the  middle  height,  with  a  slim,  full 
blown  figure,  with  fair  hair,  curling  and  blowing  about  a 
pink  and  white  face,  and  with  solemn  eyes — prematurely 
gray  eyes,  her  father  called  them — with  red  lips,  with  white 
teeth  that  flashed  when  she  smiled,  and  with  a  laugh  like 
the  murmur  of  gay  waters ;  given  a  more  than  usual  amount 
of  inherited  good  sense,  and  combine  that  with  a  world  of 
sentiment  that  perfect  health  can  bring  to  a  girl  of  twenty- 
two  ;  then  add  one  exceptionally  fascinating  man  of  thirty — 
more  or  less — a  handsome  young  man;  a  successful  man  as 
young  men  go,  with  the  oratorical  temperament  and  enough 
of  a  head  to  be  a  good  consulting  lawyer  as  well  as  a  jury 
lawyer  with  more  than  local  reputation ;  add  to  the  young 
man  that  vague  social  iridescence,  or  aura  or  halo  that 
young  men  wear  in  glamor,  and  that  old  men  wear  in  shame 
— a  past ;  and  then  let  public  opinion  agree  that  he  is  his  own 
worst  enemy  and  declare  that  if  he  only  had  some  strong 
woman  to  take  hold  of  him — and  behold  there  are  the  in 
gredients  of  human  gunpowder ! 

Doctor  Nesbit  smelled  the  burning  powder.  Vainly  he 
tried  to  stamp  out  the  fire  before  the  explosion. 

"Bedelia,"  said  the  Doctor  one  day,  as  the  parents  heard 
the  girl  talking  eagerly  with  the  young  man,  "what  do  you 
make  out  of  this  everlasting  'Tom,  Tom,  Tom,'  out  there  in 
the  living  room?" 

Mrs.  Nesbit  rocked  in  her  chair  and  shook  an  ominous 
head.  Finally  she  said:  "I  wish  he'd  Tom  himself  home 
and  stay  there,  Doctor."  The  wife  spoke  as  an  oracle  with 
emphasis  and  authority.  "You  must  speak  to  the  child!" 

The  little  man  puckered  his  loose-skinned  face  into  a  sad, 
absurdly  pitiful  smile  and  shrilled  back: 


LIFE  TRANSLATES  ITSELF  79 

"Yes — I  did  speak  to  her.     And  she — "  he  paused. 

"Well?"  demanded  the  mother. 

"She  just  fed  me  back  all  the  decent  things  I  have  said 
of  Tom  when  he  has  done  my  errands."  He  drummed  his 
fingers  helplessly  on  his  chair  and  sighed  mournfully:  "I 
wonder  why  I  said  those  things !  I  really  wonder ! ' ' 

But  the  voices  of  the  young  people  rose  gayly  and  dis 
turbed  his  musings. 

It  is  easy  now  after  a  quarter  of  a  century  has  unfolded 
its  events  for  us  to  lay  blame  and  grow  wise  in  retrospect. 
It  is  easy  to  say  that  what  happened  was  fore-doomed  to 
happen ;  and  yet  here  was  a  man,  walking  up  and  down  the 
curved  verandahs  that  Mrs.  Nesbit  had  added  to  the  house 
at  odd  times,  walking  up  and  down,  and  speaking  to  a  girl  in 
the  moonlight,  with  much  power  and  fire,  of  life  and  his 
dreams  and  his  aspirations. 

Over  and  over  he  had  sung  his  mating  song.  Formerly  he 
had  made  love  as  he  tried  lawsuits,  exhibiting  only  such 
fervor  as  the  case  required.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  how 
ever,  that  when  he  made  love  to  Laura  Nesbit,  it  was  with  all 
the  powers  of  his  heart  and  mind.  If  he  could  plead  with 
a  jury  for  hire,  if  he  could  argue  with  the  court  and  wrangle 
with  council,  how  could  he  meet  reason,  combat  objec 
tions,  and  present  the  case  of  his  soul  and  make  up  the  brief 
for  his  own  destiny  ? 

He  did  not  try  to  shield  himself  when  he  wooed  Laura 
Nesbit,  but  she  saw  all  that  he  could  be.  A  woman  has  her 
vanity  of  sex,  her  elaborate,  prematernal  pride  in  her  pow 
ers,  and  when  man  appeals  to  a  Woman's  powers  for  saving 
him,  when  he  submits  the  proofs  that  he  is  worth  saving, 
and  when  he  is  handsome,  with  an  education  in  the  lore  of 
the  heart  that  gives  him  charm  and  breaks  down  reserves 
and  barriers — but  these  are  bygones  now — bygones  these 
twenty-five  years  and  more.  What  was  to  be  had  to  be,  and 
what  might  have  been  never  was,  and  what  their  hopes  and 
high  aims  were,  whose  hearts  glowed  in  the  fires  of  life  in 
Harvey  so  long  ago — and  what  all  our  vain,  unfruited  hopes 
are  worth,  only  a  just  God  who  reads  us  truly  may  say. 
And  a  just  God  would  give  to  the  time  and  the  place,  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  its  share  in  all  that  followed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CAPTAIN   MORTON   ACTS   AS    COURT    HERALD    AND    MORTY    SANDS 
AND  GRANT  ADAMS  HEAR  SAD  NEWS 

SPRING  in  Mrs.  Nesbit's  garden,  even  in  those  days 
when  a  garden  in  Harvey  meant  chiefly  lettuce  and 
radishes  and  peas,  was  no  casual  event.  Spring 
opened  formally  for  the  Nesbits  with  crocuses  and  hya 
cinths;  smiled  genially  in  golden  forsythia,  bridal  wreath 
and  tulips,  preened  itself  in  flags  and  lilacs  before  glowing 
in  roses  and  peonies.  Now  the  spring  is  always  wise;  for 
it  knows  what  the  winter  only  hopes  or  fears.  Events  burst 
forth  in  spring  that  have  been  hidden  since  their  seedtime. 
And  it  was  with  the  coming  of  the  first  crocuses  that  Dr. 
Nesbit  found  in  his  daughter's  eyes  a  joyous  look,  new  and 
exultant — a  look  which  never  had  been  inspired  by  the  love 
he  lavished  upon  her.  It  was  not  meant  for  him.  Yet  it 
was  as  truly  a  spring  blossom  as  any  that  blushed  in  the 
garden.  When  it  came  and  when  the  father  realized  that 
the  mother  also  saw  it,  they  feared  to  speak  of  it — even  to 
themselves  and  by  indirection. 

For  they  knew  their  winter  conspiracies  had  failed.  In 
vain  was  the  trip  to  Baltimore;  in  vain  was  the  week  with 
grand  opera  in  New  York,  and  they  both  knew  that  the 
proposed  trip  to  Europe  never  would  occur.  When  the 
parents  saw  that  look  of  triumphant  joy  in  their  daughter's 
face,  when  they  saw  how  it  lighted  up  her  countenance  like 
a  flame  when  Tom  Van  Dorn  was  near  or  was  on  his  way  to 
her,  they  knew  that  from  the  secret  recesses  of  her  heart, 
from  the  depths  of  her  being,  love  was  springing.  They 
knew  that  they  could  not  uproot  it,  and  they  had  no  heart 
to  try.  For  they  accepted  love  as  a  fact  of  life,  and  felt 
that  when  once  it  has  seeded  and  grown  upon  a  heart,  it  is 
a  part  of  that  heart  and  only  God 's  own  wisdom  and  mercy 

80 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  AS  COURT  HERALD        81 

may  change  the  destiny  that  love  has  written  upon  the  life 
in  which  love  rests.  So  in  the  wisdom  of  the  spring,  the 
parents  were  mute  and  sad. 

There  was  no  hint  of  anger  in  their  sorrow.  They  realized 
that  if  she  was  wrong,  and  they  were  right,  she  needed  them 
vastly  more  than  if  they  were  wrong  and  she  was  right,  and 
so  they  tried  to  rejoice  with  her — not  of  course  expressly 
and  baldly,  but  in  a  thousand  ways  that  lay  about  them, 
they  made  her  as  happy  as  they  could.  Their  sweet  acqui 
escence  in  what  she  knew  was  cutting  the  elders  to  the  quick, 
gave  the  girl  many  an  hour  of  poignant  distress.  Yet  the 
purpose  of  her  heart  was  not  moved.  The  Satterthwaite  in 
her  was  dominant. 

" Doctor,"  spoke  the  wife  one  morning  as  they  sat  alone 
over  their  breakfast,  "I  think — "  She  stopped,  and  he 
knew  she  was  listening  to  the  daughter,  who  was  singing  in 
an  undertone  in  the  garden. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "so  do  I.  I  think  they  have  set 
tled  it." 

The  man  dropped  his  glance  to  the  table  before  him,  where 
his  hands  rested  helplessly  and  cried,  "Bedelia — I  don't — I 
don't  like  it!" 

The  color  of  her  woe  darkened  Mrs.  Nesbit's  face  as  her 
features  trembled  for  a  second,  before  she  controlled  her 
self.  "No,  Jim — no — no!  I  don't — I'm  afraid — afraid,  of 
I  don 't  know  what ! ' ' 

"Of  course,  he's  of  excellent  family — the  very  best!"  the 
wife  ventured. 

"And  he's  making  money — and  has  lots  of  money  from 
his  people!"  returned  the  father. 

"And  he's  a  man  among  men!"  added  the  mother. 

"Oh,  yes — very  much  that, — and  he's  trying  to  be  de 
cent!  Honestly,  Bedelia,  I  believe  the  fellow's  got  a  new 
grip  on  himself ! ' '  The  Doctor 's  voice  had  regained  its  tim 
bre  ;  it  was  just  a  little  hard,  and  it  broke  an  instant  later 
as  he  cried:  "O  Lord,  Lord,  mother — we  can't  fool  our 
selves;  let's  not  try!"  They  looked  into  the  garden,  where 
the  girl  stood  by  the  blooming  lilacs  with  her  arms  filled 
with  blossoms. 

At  length  the  mother  spoke,  "What  shall  we  do?" 


82  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"What  can  we  do?"  the  Doctor  echoed.  "What  can  any 
human  creatures  do  in  these  cases!  To  interfere  does  no 
good!  The  thing  is  here.  Why  has  it  come?  I  don't 
know."  He  repeated  the  last  sentence  piteously  and  went 
on  gently: 

'They  say  it  was  a  stolen  tide— the  Lord  who  sent  it, 
He  knows  all ! '  But  why— why— why— did  it  wash  in  here  ? 
What  does  it  mean?  What  have  we  done— and  what— what 
has  she  done  ? ' ' 

The  little  Doctor  looked  up  into  the  strong  face  of  his 
wife  rather  helplessly,  then  the  time  spirit  that  is  after  all 
our  sanity— touched  them,  and  they  smiled.  "Perhaps, 
Jim,"  the  smile  broke  into  something  almost  like  a  laugh, 
"father  said  something  like  that  to  mother  the  day  I  stood 
among  the  magnolias  trying  to  pluck  courage  with  the  flow 
ers  to  tell  him  that  I  was  going  with  you ! ' ' 

They  succeeded  in  raising  a  miserable  little  laugh,  and  he 
squeezed  her  hand. 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  house.  The  father  turned  and 
put  on  his  hat  as  he  went  to  meet  her.  She  was  a  hesitant, 
self-conscious  girl  in  pink,  who  stopped  her  father  as  he 
toddled  down  the  front  steps  with  his  medicine  case  and 
she  put  her  hand  upon  him,  saying : 

"Father,"  she  paused,  looking  eagerly  at  him,  then  con 
tinued,  "there's  the  loveliest  yellow  flag  over  here."  The 
father  smiled,  put  his  arm  about  the  girl  and  piped:  "So 
the  pink  rosebud  will  take  us  to  the  yellow  flag!"  They 
walked  across  the  garden  to  the  flower  and  she  exclaimed  • 
"Oh,  father— isn't  it  lovely!" 

The  father  looked  tenderly  into  her  gray  eyes,  patted  her 
on  the  shoulder  and  with  his  arm  still  about  her,  he  led  her 
to  a  seat  under  the  lilacs  before  the  yellow  flower.  He 
looked  from  the  flower  to  her  face  and  then  kissed  her  as  he 
whispered:  "Oh  my  dear,  my  dear."  She  threw  her  arms 
about  him  and  buried  her  face,  all  flushed,  upon  his  shoulder. 
He  felt  her  quiver  under  the  pressure  of  his  arm  and  be 
fore  she  could  look  at  him,  she  spoke : 

"Oh,  father!  Father!  You — you  won't — you  won't 
blame — "  Then  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  his  and  cried 
passionately :  ' '  But  all  the  world  could  not  stop  it  now — not 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  AS  COURT  HERALD        83 

now!  But,  oh,  father,  I  want  you  with  me,"  and  she  shook 
his  arm.  "You  must  understand.  You  must  see  Tom  as 
I  see  him,  father."  She  looked  the  question  of  her  soul  in 
an  anxious,  searching  glance.  Her  father  reached  for  one 
of  her  hands  and  patted  it.  He  gazed  downward  at  the 
yellow  iris,  but  did  not  see  it. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know — I  understand." 

"I  was  sure  that  you  would  know  without  my  spelling  it 
all  out  to  you.  But,  oh,  father,"  she  cried,  "I  don't  want 
you  and  mother  to  feel  as  you  do  about  Tom,  for  you  are 
wrong.  You  are  all — all  wrong!" 

The  Doctor 's  fat  hand  pressed  the  strong  hand  of  the  girl. 
"Well,"  he  began  slowly,  his  high-keyed  voice  was  pitched 
to  a  soft  tone  and  he  spoke  with  a  woman's  gentleness, 
"Tom's  quite  a  man,  but — "  he  could  only  repeat,  "quite 
a  man."  Then  he  added  gently:  "And  I  feel  that  he 
thinks  it's  genuine  now — his — love  for  you,  daughter." 
The  Doctor's  face  twitched,  and  he  swallowed  a  convulsive 
little  sob  as  he  said,  "Laura — child — can't  you  see,  it  really 
makes  no  difference  about  Tom — not  finally!"  He  blinked 
and  gulped  and  went  on  with  renewed  courage.  "Can't  you 
see,  child — you're  all  we've  got — mother  and  I — and  if  you 
want  Tom — why — "  his  face  began  to  crumple,  but  he  con 
trolled  it,  and  blurted  out,  "Why  by  Johnnie  you  can  have 
him.  And  what 's  more, ' '  his  voice  creaked  with  emotion  as 
he  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  knee,  "I'm  going  to  make 
Tom  the  best  father-in-law  in  the  whole  United  States." 
His  body  rocked  for  a  moment  as  he  spurred  himself  to  a 
last  effort.  Then  he  said:  "And  mother — mother '11  be — 
mother  will — she'll  make  him —  '  he  could  get  no  further, 
but  he  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand,  and  knew  that  she 
understood.  "Mother  and  I  just  want  you  to  be  happy  and 
if  it  takes  Tom  for  that — why  Tom's  what  it  takes,  I  guess — 
and  that 's  all  we  want  to  know ! ' ' 

The  girl  felt  the  tears  on  his  face  as  she  laid  her  cheek 
against  his. 

Then  she  spoke:  "But  you  don't  know  him,  father! 
You  don 't  understand  him !  It 's  beautiful  to  be  able  to  do 
what  I  can  do — but, ' '  she  shuddered,  "  it 's  so  awful — I  mean 
all  that  devil  that  used  to  be  in  him.  He  is  so  ashamed,  so 


84  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

sorry — and  it's  gone — all  gone — all,  every  bit  of  it  gone, 
father!"  She  put  her  father's  hand  to  her  flaming  cheek 
and  whispered,  ' '  You  think  so,  don 't  you,  father  ? ' ' 

The  father's  eyes  filled  again  and  his  throat  choked. 
" Laura,"  he  said  very  gently,  "my  professional  opinion  is 
this:  You've  a  fighting  chance  with  Tom  Van  Dorn — 
about  one  in  ten.  He's  young.  You're  a  strong,  forceful 
woman — lot's  of  good  Satterthwaite  in  you,  and  precious 
little  of  the  obliging  Nesbits.  Now  I'll  tell  you  the  truth, 
Laura;  Tom's  got  a  typical  cancer  on  his  soul.  But  he's 
young;  and  you're  young,  and  just  now  he's  undergoing  a 
moral  regeneration.  You  are  new  blood.  You  may  purify 
him.  If  the  moral  tissue  isn't  all  rotten,  you  may  cure 
him." 

The  girl  gripped  her  father's  hand  and  cried:  "But  you 
think  I  can — father,  you  think  I  can  ? ' ' 

"No,"  piped  the  little  man  sadly,  "no,  daughter,  I  don't 
think  you  can.  But  I  hope  you  can;  and  if  you'd  like  to 
know,  I'm  going  to  pray  the  God  that  sent  me  to  your 
mother  to  give  you  the  sense  and  power  He  gave  her. ' '  The 
Doctor  smiled,  withdrew  his  arm,  and  started  for  the  street. 
He  turned,  "And  if  you  do  save  him,  Laura,  I'll  be  mighty 
proud  of  you.  For,"  he  squeaked  good  naturedly,  "it's  a 
big  job — but  when  you've  done  it  you'll  have  something  to 
show  for  it — I'll  say  that  for  him— you'll  certainly  have 
something  to  show  for  it,"  he  repeated.  He  did  not  whistle 
as  he  walked  down  the  street  and  the  daughter  thought  that 
he  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  As  he  was  about  to  pass 
from  her  view,  he  turned,  waved  his  hand  and  threw  her  a 
kiss,  and  with  it  she  felt  a  blessing. 

But  curiously  enough  she  saw  only  one  of  the  goodly 
company  of  Doctor  Nesbits  that  trudged  down  the  hill  in  his 
white  linen  suit,  under  his  broad-brimmed  panama  hat. 
Naturally  she  hardly  might  be  expected  to  see  the  conscience 
less  boss  of  Hancock  and  Greely  counties,  who  handled  the 
money  of  privilege  seekers  and  bought  and  sold  men  gayly 
as  a  part  of  the  day's  work.  Nor  could  she  be  expected  to 
see  the  helpless  little  man  whose  face  crumpled,  whose  heart 
sank  and  whose  courage  melted  as  he  stood  beside  her  in 
the  garden,  the  sad,  hopeless  little  man  who,  as  he  went  down 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  AS  COURT  HERALD       85 

the  hill  was  captain  of  the  groups  that  walked  under  his 
hat  that  hour.  The  amiable  Doctor,  who  was  everybody's 
friend  and  was  loyal  to  those  who  served  him,  the  daughter 
neglected  that  day;  and  the  State  Senator  did  not  attract 
her.  She  saw  only  a  gentle,  tender,  understanding  father, 
whose  love  shone  out  of  his  face  like  a  beacon  and  who 
threw  merry  kisses  as  he  disappeared  down  the  hill — a  ruddy- 
faced,  white  phantom  in  a  golden  spring  day ! 

Some  place  between  his  home  and  Market  Street  the  father 
retired  and  the  politician  took  command  of  Dr.  Nesbit's  soul. 
And  he  gave  thought  to  the  Nesbit  machine.  The  job  of  the 
moment  before  the  machine  was  to  make  George  Brotherton, 
who  had  the  strength  of  a  man  who  belonged  to  all  the  lodges 
in  town,  mayor  of  Harvey.  "Help  Harvey  Hump"  was 
George's  alliterative  slogan,  and  the  translation  of  the  slo 
gan  into  terms  of  Nesbitese  was  found  in  a  rather  elaborate 
plan  to  legalize  the  issuance  of  bonds  by  the  coal  and  oil 
towns  adjacent  to  Harvey,  so  that  Daniel  Sands  could  spin 
•ut  his  web  of  iron  and  copper  and  steel, — rails  and  wires 
and  pipes  into  these  huddles  of  shanties  that  he  might  sell 
them  light  and  heat  and  power  and  communication  and 
transportation. 

Even  the  boss — even  Old  Linen  Pants — was  not  without 
his  sense  of  humor,  nor  without  his  joyous  moments  when  he 
relished  human  nature  in  large,  raw  portions.  As  he  walked 
down  the  hill  there  flashed  across  his  mind  a  consciousness 
of  the  pride  of  George  Brotherton  in  his  candidacy.  That 
pride  expressed  itself  in  a  feud  George  had  with  Violet 
Mauling  who,  having  achieved  stenography,  was  installed 
in  the  offices  of  Calvin  &  Van  Dorn  as  a  stenographer — the 
stenographer  in  fact.  She  on  her  part  was  profoundly 
proud  of  her  job  and  expressed  her  pride  in  overhanging 
and  exceeding  mischievous  looking  bangs  upon  her  low 
and  rather  narrow  brow.  In  the  feud  between  George  and 
Violet,  it  was  her  consecrated  task  to  keep  him  waiting  as 
long  as  possible  before  admitting  him  to  Van  Dorn's  inner 
room,  and  it  was  Mr.  Brotherton 's  idea  never  to  call  her  by 
her  right  name,  nor  by  any  name  twice  in  succession.  She 
was  Inez  or  Maude  or  Mabel  or  Gwendolyn  or  Pet  or  Sweet 
heart  or  Dearest,  in  rapid  succession,  and  in  return  for  his 


86  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

pseudonymnal  attentions,  Mr.  Brotherton  always  was  sure 
of  receiving  from  Miss  Mauling  upon  leaving  the  office, 
an  elaborately  turned-up  nose.  For  Miss  Mauling  was  peev 
ish  and  far  from  happy.  She  had  been  conscious  for  nearly 
a  year  that  her  power  over  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn  was  failing, 
or  that  her  charms  were  waning,  or  that  something  was  hap 
pening  to  clog  or  cloy  her  romance.  On  a  certain  May 
morning  she  had  sat  industriously  writing,  ''When  in  the 
course  of  human  events,"  "When  in  the  course  of  human 
events  it  becomes  necessary,"  "When  in  the  course  of  hu 
man  events  it  becomes  necessary  for  a  people  to  separate — " 
upon  her  typewriter,  over  and  over  and  over  again,  while 
she  listened  to  Captain  Morton  selling  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn 
a  patent  churn,  and  from  the  winks  and  nods  and  sly  digs 
and  nudges  the  Captain  distributed  through  his  canvass,  it 
was  obvious  to  Miss  Mauling  that  affairs  in  certain  quarters 
had  reached  a  point. 

That  evening  at  Brotherton 's  Amen  corner,  where  the 
gay  young  blades  of  the  village  were  gathered — Captain 
Morton  decided  that  as  court  herald  of  the  community  he 
should  proclaim  the  banns  between  Thomas  Van  Dorn  and 
Laura  Nesbit.  Naturally  he  desired  a  proper  entrance  into 
the  conversation  for  his  proclamation,  but  with  the  ever 
lasting  ting-aling  and  tym-ty-tum  of  Nathan  Perry's  mando 
lin  and  the  jangling  accompaniment  of  Morty's  mandolin, 
opening  for  the  court  herald  was  not  easy.  Grant  Adams 
was  sitting  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  bench  from  the  Captain, 
deep  in  one  of  Mr.  Brotherton 's  paper  bound  books — to-wit, 
''The Atones  of  Venice,"  and  young  Joe  Calvin  sadly  smok 
ing  his  first  stogy,  though  still  in  his  knickerbockers,  was 
greedily  feasting  his  eyes  upon  a  copy  of  the  pink  Police 
Gazette  hanging  upon  a  rack  above  the  counter.  Henry 
Fenn  and  Mr.  Brotherton  were  lounging  over  the  cigar 
case,  discussing  matters  of  state  as  they  affected  a  county 
attorney  and  a  mayor,  when  the  Captain,  clearing  his  throat, 
addressed  Mr.  Brotherton  thus: 

"George — I  sold  two  patent  churns  to  two  bridegrooms 
to-day — eh?"  As  the  music  stopped  the  Captain,  looking 
at  Henry  Fenn,  added  reflectively:  "Bet  you  four  bits, 
George,  you  can't  name  the  other  one — what  say?"  No  one 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  AS  COURT  HERALD        87 

said  and  the  Captain  took  up  his  solo.  "Well — it's  this- 
away:  I  see  what  I  see  next  door.  And  I  hear  what  my 
girls  say.  So  this  morning  I  sashays  around  the  yard  till 
I  meets  a  certain  young  lady  a  standing  by  the  yaller  rose 
bush  next  to  our  line  fence  and  I  says:  'Good  morning 
madam,'  I  says,  'from  what  I  see  and  hear  and  cogitate,'  I 
says,  'it's  getting  about  time  for  you  to  join  my  list  of 
regular  customers/  And  she  kind  of  laughs  like  a  Swiss 
bellringer's  chime — the  way  she  laughs;  and  she  pretended 
she  didn't  understand.  So  I  broadens  out  and  says,  'I  sold 
Rhody  Kollander  her  first  patent  rocker  the  day  she  came 
to  town  to  begin  housekeeping  with.  I  sold  your  pa  and 
ma  a  patent  gate  before  they  had  a  fence.  I  sold  Joe  Cal 
vin's  woman  her  first  apple  corer,  and  I  started  Ahab 
Wright  up  in  housekeeping  by  selling  him  a  Peerless  cooker. 
I've  sold  household  necessities  to  every  one  of  the  Mrs. 
Sandses'  and  'y  gory,  madam,'  I  says,  'next  to  the  probate 
court  and  the  preacher,  I'm  about  the  first  necessity  of  a 
happy  marriage  in  this  man's  town/  I  says,  'and  it  looks 
to  me,'  I  says,  'it  certainly  looks  to  me — '  And  I  laughs 
and  she  laughs,  all  redded  up  and  asts:  'Well,  what  are 
you  selling  this  spring,  Captain?'  And  I  says,  'The  Ap- 
pomattox  churn/  and  then  one  word  brought  on  another 
and  she  says  finally,  'You  just  tell  Tom  to  buy  one  for  the 
first  of  our  Lares  and  Penates/  though  I  got  the  last  word 
wrong  and  tried  to  sell  him  Lares  and  spuds  and  then  Lares 
and  Murphies  before  he  got  what  I  was  drivin'  at.  But  I 
certainly  sold  the  other  bridegroom,  Henry — eh?" 

A  silence  greeted  the  Captain's  remarks.  In  it  the 
"Stones  of  Venice"  grew  bleak  and  cold  for  Grant  Adams. 
He  rose  and  walked  rather  aimlessly  toward  the  water  cooler 
in  the  rear  of  the  store  and  gulped  down  two  cups  of  water. 
When  he  came  back  to  the  bench  the  group  there  was  busy 
with  the  Captain's  news.  But  the  music  did  not  start 
again.  Morty  Sands  sat  staring  into  the  pearl  inlaid  ring 
around  the  hole  in  his  mandolin,  and  his  chin  trembled. 
The  talk  drifted  away  from  the  Captain's  announcement  in 
a  moment,  and  Morty  saw  Grant  Adams  standing  by  the 
door,  looking  through  a  window  into  the  street.  Grant 
seemed  a  tower  of  strength.  For  a  few  minutes  Morty  tried 


88  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

to  restore  his  soul  by  thrumming  a  tune — a  sweet,  tinkly 
little  tune,  whose  words  kept  dinging  in  his  head : 

"Love  comes  like  a  summer  sigh,  softly  o'er  us  stealing; 

"Love  comes  and  we  wonder  why,  at  love's  shrine  we're  kneeling!" 

But  that  only  unsteadied  his  chin  further.  So  he  tucked 
his  mandolin  under  his  arm,  and  moved  rather  stupidly 
over  to  Grant  Adams.  To  Morty,  Grant  Adams,  even 
though  half  a  dozen  years  his  junior,  represented  cousinship 
and  fellowship.  As  Morty  rose  Grant  stepped  through  the 
open  door  into  the  street  and  stood  on  the  curb.  Morty  came 
tiptoeing  up  to  the  great  rawboned  youth  and  whispered : 

"Grant — Grant — I'm  so — so  damned  unhappy!  You 
don't  mind  my  telling  you — do  you?"  Grant  felt  the  arm 
of  his  cousin  tighten  around  his  own  arm.  Grant  stared 
at  the  stars,  and  Morty  gazed  at  the  curb ;  presently  he  drew 
a  deep  sigh  and  said:  "Thank  you,  Grant."  He  relaxed 
his  hold  of  the  boy's  arm  and  walked  away  with  his  head 
down,  and  disappeared  around  the  corner  into  the  night. 
Slowly  Grant  followed  him.  Once  or  twice  or  perhaps  three 
times  he  heard  Morty  trying  vainly  to  thrum  the  sad  little 
tune  about  the  waywardness  of  love. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEREIN    HENRY   FENN   MAKES   AN   INTERESTING   EXPERIMENT 

THE  formal  announcement  of  the  engagement  of  Laura 
Nesbit  and  Thomas  Van  Dorn  came  when  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit  began  tearing  out  the  old  floors  on  the  second 
story  of  the  Nesbit  home  and  replacing  them  with  hard 
wood  floors.  Having  the  carpenters  handy  she  added  a 
round  tower  with  which  to  impress  the  Schenectady  Van 
Dorns  with  the  importance  of  the  Maryland  Satterthwaites. 
In  this  architectural  outburst  the  town  read  the  news  of  the 
engagement.  The  town  was  so  moved  by  the  news  that 
Mrs.  Hilda  Herdicker  was  able  to  sell  to  the  young  women 
of  her  millinery  suzerainty  sixty-three  hats,  which  had  been 
ordered  "especially  for  Laura  Nesbit,"  at  prices  ranging 
from  $2.00  to  $57.  Each  hat  was  carefully,  indeed  fur 
tively,  brought  from  under  the  counter,  or  from  the  back 
room  of  the  shop  or  from  a  box  on  a  high  shelf  and  secretly 
exhibited  and  sold  with  injunctions  that  the  Nesbits  must 
not  be  told  what  Mrs.  Herdicker  had  done.  One  of  these 
hats  was  in  reach  of  Violet  Mauling 's  humble  twenty  dol 
lars!  Poor  Violet  was  having  a  sad  time  in  those  days. 
No  candy,  no  soda  water,  no  ice  cream,  no  flowers ;  no  buggy 
rides,  however  clandestine,  nor  fervid  glances — nothing  but 
hard  work  was  her  unhappy  lot  and  an  occasional  clash 
with  Mr.  Brotherton.  Thus  the  morning  after  the  newly 
elected  Mayor  had  heard  the  formal  announcement  of  the 
engagement,  he  hurried  to  the  offices  of  Calvin  &  Van  Dorn 
to  congratulate  his  friend : 

"Hello,  Maudie,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton.  "Oh,  it  isn't 
Maudie — well  then,  Trilby,  tell  Mr.  Van  Dorn  the  handsome 
gentleman  has  came." 

Hearing  Brotherton 's  noise  Van  Dorn  appeared,  to  sum 
mon  his  guest  to  the  private  office. 

89 


90  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Well,  you  lucky  old  dog!"  was  Mr.  Brother-ton 's  greet 
ing.  "Well,  say — this  is  his  honor,  the  Mayor,  come  up  to 
collect  your  dog  tax!  Well,  say!"  As  he  walked  into  the 
office  all  the  secret  society  pins  and  charms  and  signets — 
the  Shriners'  charm,  the  Odd  Fellows'  links,  the  Woodmen's 
ax,  the  Elks'  tooth,  the  Masons'  square  and  compass,  the 
Knights  Templars'  arms,  were  glistening  upon  his  wrinkled 
front  like  a  mosaic  of  jewels ! 

Mr.  Brotherton  shook  his  friend's  hand,  repeating  over 
and  over,  "Well,  say — "  After  the  congratulatory  cere 
mony  was  finished  Mr.  Brotherton  cried,  "You  old  scoun 
drel — I'd  rather  have  your  luck  than  a  license  to  steal  in 
a  mint ! ' '  Then  with  an  eye  to  business,  he  suggested : 
"  I  '11  just  about  open  a  box  of  ten  centers  down  at  my  home 
of  the  letters  and  arts  for  you  when  the  boys  drop  around  !" 
He  backed  out  of  the  room  still  shaking  Mr.  Van  Dorn's 
hand,  and  still  roaring,  "Well,  say!"  In  the  outer  office 
he  waved  a  gracious  hand  at  Miss  Mauling  and  cried, 
"Three  sugars,  please,  Sadie — that  will  do  for  cream!"  and 
went  laughing  his  seismic  laugh  down  the  stairs. 

That  evening  the  cigar  box  stood  on  the  counter  in  Broth 
erton 's  store.  It  was  wreathed  in  smilax  like  a  votive  of 
fering  and  on  a  card  back  of  the  box  Mr.  Brotherton  had 
written  these  pious  words: 

"In  loving  memory  of  the  late  Tom  Van  Dorn, 

Recently    engaged. 

For  here,  kind  friends,  we  all  must  lie; 
Turn,  Sinner,  turn  before  ye  die! 
Take  one" 

Seeing  the  box  in  the  cloister  and  the  brotherhood  assem 
bled  upon  the  walnut  bench  Dr.  Nesbit,  who  came  in  on 
a  political  errand,  sniffed,  and  turned  to  Amos  Adams. 
"Well,  Amos,"  piped  the  Doctor,  "how's  Lincoln  this  eve 
ning?" 

The  editor  looked  up  amiably  at  the  pudgy,  white-clad 
figure  of  the  Doctor,  and  replied  casually  though  earnestly, 
"Well,  Doc  Jim,  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  Lincoln  to-day. 
But  I  did  have  a  nice  chat  with  Beecher  last  night  and  he 
said:  'Your  friend,  Dr.  Nesbit,  I  observe,  is  a  low  church 


HENRY  FENN  MAKES  AN  EXPERIMENT   91 

Congregationalist. '  And  when  I  asked  what  he  meant 
Beecher  replied,  'High  church  Congregationalists  believe  in 
New  England;  low  church  Congregationalists  believe  in 
God ! '  Sounds  like  him — I  could  just  see  him  twitching  his 
lips  and  twinkling  his  eyes  when  it  came!"  Captain  Mor 
ton  looked  suspiciously  over  his  steel-bowed  glasses  to  say 
testily : 

' '  'Y  gory,  Amos — that  thing  will  get  you  yet — what  say  ? ' ' 
he  asked,  turning  for  confirmation  to  the  Doctor. 

Amos  Adams  smiled  gently  at  the  Captain,  Jbut  addressed 
the  Doctor  eagerly,  as  one  more  capable  of  understanding 
matters  occult:  "And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing — Mr.  Left 
is  coming  regularly  now." 

"Mr.  Left?"  sniffed  the  Captain. 

"  Yes,"  explained  the  editor  carefully,  "I  was  telling 
the  Doctor  last  week  that  if  I  go  into  a  dark  room  and 
blindfold  myself  and  put  a  pencil  in  my  left  hand,  a 
control  who  calls  himself  Mr.  Left  comes  and  writes  mes 
sages  from  the  Other  Side. ' ' 

"Any  more  sense  to  'em  than  your  crazy  planchette?" 
scoffed  Captain  Morton. 

The  editor  closed  his  eyes  in  triumph.  "Read  our  edito 
rial  this  week  on  President  Cleveland  and  the  Money  Power  ? ' ' 
he  asked.  The  Captain  nodded.  "Mr.  Left  got  it  with 
out  the  scratch  of  a  't'  or  the  dot  of  an  'i'  from  Samuel  J. 
Tilden."  He  opened  his  eyes  to  catch  the  astonishment  of 
the  listeners. 

"Humph!"  snorted  the  Doctor  in  his  high,  thin  voice, 
"Old  Tilden  seems  to  have  got  terribly  chummy  with  Karl 
Marx  in  the  last  two  years. ' ' 

"Well,  I  didn't  write  it,  and  Mary  says  it's  not  even  like 
my  handwrite.  And  that  reminds  me,  Doctor,  I  got  to  get 
her  prescription  filled  again.  That  tonic  you  give  her  seems 
to  be  kind  of  wearing  off.  The  baby  you  know — "  he 
stopped  a  moment  vaguely.  "Someway  she  doesn't  seem 
strong. ' ' 

Only  the  Doctor  caught  Grant's  troubled  look. 

The  Doctor  snapped  his  watch,  and  looked  at  Brother- 
ton.  The  Doctor  was  not  the  man  to  loaf  long  of  an  autumn 
evening  before  any  election,  and  he  turned  to  Amos  and 


92  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

said:  "All  right,  Amos — we'll  fix  up  something  for  Mary 
a  little  later.  Now,  George: — get  out  that  Fourth  Ward 
voters'  list  and  let's  get  to  work!" 

The  group  turned  to  the  opening  door  and  saw  Henry 
Fenn,  resplendent  in  a  high  silk  hat  and  a  conspicuously 
Sunday  best  suit,  which  advertised  his  condition,  standing 
in  the  open  door.  "Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said 
slowly. 

A  look  of  common  recognition  of  Fenn's  case  passed 
around  the  group  in  the  corner.  Fenn  saw  the  look  as  he 
came  in.  He  was  walking  painfully  straight.  "I  may,"  he 
said,  lapsing  into  the  poetry  that  came  welling  from  his 
memory  and  marked  him  for  a  drunken  fool,  "I  may," 
opening  his  ardent  eyes  and  glancing  affectionately  about, 
"have  been  toying  with  'lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon' 
and  my  feet  may  be  'uncertain,  coy  and  hard  to  please,'  ' 
he  grinned  with  wide  amiability,  "but  my  head  is  clear  as 
a  bell."  His  eyes  flashed  nervously  about  the  shop,  resting 
upon  nothing,  seeing  everything.  He  spied  Grant,  "Hello, 
Red,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fenn,  "glad  to  see  you  back  again. 
'M  back  again  myself.  Ye  crags  'n'  peaks  rm  with  you 
once  again."  As  he  nourished  his  silk  hat  he  saw  the  con 
sternation  on  Brotherton's  big,  moon  face.  "Walking  be 
hind  the  counter  he  clapped  both  hands  down  on  Brother- 
ton's  big  shoulders.  "Georgy,  Georgy,"  he  repeated  mourn 
fully: 

"Old  story,  Georgy.  Fight— fight,  fight,  then  just  a  lit 
tle,  just  a  very  little  surrender;  not  going  to  give  in,  but 
just  a  nip  for  old  sake's  sake.  Whoo-oo-oo-oo-p  the  sky 
rocket  blazes  and  is  gone,  and  then  just  another  nip  to  cool 
the  first  and  then  a  God  damn  big  drink  and — and — " 

He  laughed  foolishly  arid  leaned  forward  on  the  counter. 
As  his  arm  touched  the  counter  it  brushed  the  smilax  cov 
ered  cigar  box  and  sent  the  box  and  the  cigars  to  the  floor. 

* '  Henry,  you  fool — you  poor  fool, ' '  cried  Brotherton ;  but 
his  voice  was  not  angry  as  he  said :  "If  you  must  mess  up 
your  own  affairs  for  Heaven's  sake  have  some  respect  for 
Tom's!" 

* '  Tom 's  love  affairs  and  mine, ' '  sneered  the  maudlin  man. 
"  'They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side.'  But  don't  you  fool 


HENRY  FENN  MAKES  AN  EXPERIMENT   93 

yourself,"  and  Fenn  wagged  a  drunken  head,  ll Tom's  devii 
isn't  dead,  she  sleepeth,  that's  what  she  does.  The  maiden 
is  not  dead  she  sleepeth,  and  some  day  she'll  wake  up  and 
then  Tom's  love  affair  will  be  where  my  love  affair  is." 
His  eyes  met  the  doctor's.  Fenn  sighed  and  laughed  fatu 
ously  and  then  he  straightened  up  and  said:  "Mr.  George 
Brotherton,  most  worshipful  master,  Senior  Warden,  Grand 
High  Potentate,  Keeper  of  the  Records  and  Seals — hear  me. 
I'm  going  out  to  No.  826  Congress  Street  to  see  the  fairest 
of  her  sex — the  fairest  of  her  sex."  Then  he  smiled  like 
the  flash  of  a  burning  soul  and  continued : 

"  'The  cold,  the  changed,  perchance  the  dead  anew, 
The  mourned,  the  loved,  the  lost.'  " 

And  sighing  a  deep  sigh,  and  again  waving  his  silk  hat 
in  a  profound  bow,  he  was  gone.  The  group  in  the  store  saw 
him  step  lightly  into  a  waiting  hack,  and  drive  away  out  of 
their  reach.  Brotherton  stood  at  the  door  and  watched  the 
carriage  turn  off  Market  Street,  then  came  back,  shaking  a 
sorrowful  head.  He  looked  up  at  the  Doctor  and  said: 
"She's  bluffing — say,  Doctor,  you  know  her,  what  do  you 
think?" 

"Bluffing,"  returned  the  Doctor  absently,  then  added 
quickly:  "Come  now,  George,  get  your  voters'  list!  It's 
getting  late ! ' ' 

George  Brotherton  looked  blankly  at  the  group.  In  every 
face  but  the  Doctor's  a  genuine  sorrow  for  their  friend  was 
marked.  "Doc,"  Brotherton  began  apologetically,  "I  guess 
I'll  just  have  to  get  you  to  let  me  off  to-night!"  He  hesi 
tated  ;  then  as  he  saw  the  company  around  him  backing  him 
up,  "Why,  Doc,  the  way  I  feel  right  now  I  don't  care  if 
the  whole  county  ticket  is  licked!  I  can't  work  to-night, 
Doc— I  just  can't!" 

The  Doctor's  face  as  he  listened,  changed.  It  was  as 
though  another  soul  had  come  upon  the  deck  of  his  coun 
tenance.  He  answered  softly  in  his  piping  voice,  "No  man 
could,  George— after  that!"  Then  turning  to  Grant  the 
Doctor  said  gently,  as  one  reminded  of  a  forgotten  purpose : 

"Come  along  with  me,  Grant."  They  mounted  the  stairs 
to  the  Doctor's  office  and  when  the  door  was  closed  the  Doc- 


94  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

tor  motioned  Grant  to  a  chair  and  piped  sharply :  ' '  Grant, 
Kenyon  is  wearing  your  mother's  life  out.  I've  just  been 
down  to  see  her.  Look  here,  Grant,  I  want  to  know  about 
Margaret?  Does  she  ever  come  to  see  you  folks — how  does 
she  treat  Kenyon?" 

Looking  at  the  floor,  Grant  .answered  slowly,  "Well  she 
rode  down  on  her  wheel  on  his  first  birthday — slipped  in 
when  we  were  all  out  but  mother,  and  cried  and  went  on 
about  her  poor  child,  mother  said,  and  left  him  a  pair  of 
little  knit  slippers.  And  she  wrote  him  a  birthday  card 
the  second  time,  but  we  didn't  hear  from  her  this  time." 
He  paused.  "She  never  looks  at  him  on  the  street,  and 
she's  just  about  quit  speaking  to  me.  But  last  winter,  she 
came  down  and  cried  around  one  afternoon.  Mother  sent 
for  her,  I  think." 

"Why?"  asked  the  Doctor  quickly. 

"Well,"  hesitated  Grant,  "it  was  when  mother  was  first 
taken  sick.  I  think  father  and  mother  thought  maybe  Mag 
gie  might  see  things  different — well,  about  Kenyon."  He 
stopped. 

'  *  Maggie  and  you  ? ' '  prompted  the  Doctor. 

"Well,  something  like  that,  perhaps,"  replied  the  boy. 

The  Doctor  pushed  back  in  his  chair  abruptly  and  cut 
in  shrilly,  '  *  They  still  think  you  and  Margaret  should  marry 
on  account  of  Kenyon ?"  Grant  nodded.  "Do  you  want  to 
marry  her?"  The  Doctor  leaned  forward  in  his  chair, 
watching  the  boy.  The  Doctor  saw  the  flash  of  revulsion 
that  spread  over  the  youth's  face  before  Grant  raised  his 
head,  and  met  the  Doctor's  keen  gaze  and  answered  soberly, 
"I  would  if  it  was  best." 

"Well,"  the  Doctor  returned  as  if  to  himself.  "I  sup 
pose  so."  To  the  younger  man,  he  said:  "Grant,  she 
wouldn't  marry  you.  She  is  after  bigger  game.  As  far 
as  reforming  Henry  Fenn's  concerned,  she's  bluffing.  It 
doesn't  interest  her  any  more  than  Kenyon 's  lack  of  a 
mother." 

The  Doctor  rose  and  Grant  saw  that  the  interview  was 
over.  The  Doctor  left  the  youth  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway 
and  went  out  into  the  autumn  night,  where  the  stars  could 
blink  at  all  his  wisdom.  Though  he,  poor  man,  did  not  know 


HENRY  FBNN  MAKES  AN  EXPERIMENT   95 

that  they  were  winking.  For  often  men  who  know  good 
women  and  love  them  well,  are  as  unjust  to  weak  women  as 
men  are  who  know  only  those  women  who  are  frail. 

That  night  Margaret  Miiller  sat  on  the  porch,  where  Henry 
Ferm  left  her,  considering  her  problem.  Now  this  problem 
did  not  remotely  concern  the  Adamses — nor  even  Kenyon 
Adams.  Margaret  Miiller 's  problem  was  centered  in  Henry 
Fenn,  County  Attorney  of  Greeley  County ;  Henry  Fenn,  who 
had  visited  her  gorgeously  drunk;  Henry  Fenn  on  whose 
handsome  shoulder  she  had  enjoyed  rather  keenly  shedding 
some  virtuous  tears  in  chiding  him  for  his  broken  promise. 
Yet  she  knew  that  she  would  take  him  back.  And  she  knew 
that  he  knew  that  he  might  come  back.  For  she  had  moved 
far  forward  in  the  siege  of  Harvey.  She  was  well  within 
the  walls  of  the  beleaguered  city,  and  was  planning  for  the 
larger  siege  of  life  and  destiny. 

About  all  there  is  in  life  is  one's  fundamental  choice  be 
tween  the  spiritual  and  the  material.  After  that  choice 
is  made,  the  die  of  life  is  cast.  Events  play  upon  that 
choice  their  curious  pattern,  bringing  such  griefs  and  joys, 
such  calamities  and  winnings  as  every  life  must  have.  For 
that  choice  makes  character,  and  character  makes  happiness. 
Margaret  Miiller  sitting  there  in  the  night  long  after  the 
last  step  of  Henry  Fenn  had  died  away,  thought  of  her 
lover's  arms,  remembered  her  lover's  lips,  but  clearer  and 
more  moving  than  these  vain  things,  her  mind  showed  her 
what  his  hands  could  bring  her  and  if  her  soul  waved  a  duty 
signal,  for  the  salvation  of  Henry  Fenn,  she  shut  her  eyes 
to  the  signal  and  hurried  into  the  house. 

She  was  one  of  God's  miracles  of  beauty  the  next  day  as 
she  passed  Grant  Adams  on  the  street,  with  his  carpenter's 
box  on  his  arm,  going  from  the  mine  shaft  to  do  some  work 
in  the  office  of  the  attorney  for  the  mines.  She  barely  nod 
ded  to  Grant,  yet  the  radiance  of  her  beauty  made  him  turn 
his  head  to  gaze  at  her.  Doctor  Nesbit  did  that,  and  Captain 
Morton,  and  Dick  Bowman, — even  John  Kollander  turned, 
putting  up  his  ear  trumpet  as  if  to  hear  the  glory  of  her 
presence;  the  whole  street  turned  after  her  as  though  some 
high  wind  had  blown  human  heads  backward  when  she 
passed.  They  saw  a  lithe,  exquisite  animal  figure,  poised 


96  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

strongly  on  her  feet,  walking  as  in  the  very  pride  of  sex, 
radiating  charms  consciously,  but  with  all  the  grace  of  a 
flower  in  the  breeze.  Her  bright  eyes,  her  masses  of  dark 
hair,  her  dimpled  face  and  neck,  her  lips  that  flamed  with 
the  joy  of  life,  the  enchantment  of  her  whole  body,  was  so 
complete  a  thing  that  morning,  that  she  might  well  have 
told  her  story  to  the  world.  The  little  Doctor  knew  what 
her  answer  to  Henry  Fenn  had  been  and  always  would  be. 
He  knew  as  well  as  though  she  had  told  him.  In  spite  of 
himself,  his  heart  melted  a  little  and  he  had  consciously  to 
stop  arguing  with  himself  that  she  had  done  the  wise  thing ; 
that  to  throw  Henry  over  would  only  hasten  an  end,  which 
her  powerful  personality  might  finally  avert.  But  George 
Brotherton — when  he  saw  the  light  in  her  eyes,  was  sad. 
In  the  core  of  him,  because  he  loved  his  friend,  he  knew 
what  had  happened  to  that  friend.  He  was  sad — sad  and 
resentful,  vaguely  and  without  reason,  at  the  mien  and  bear 
ing  of  Margaret  Miiller  as  she  went  to  her  work  that  morn 
ing. 

Brotherton  remembered  her  an  hour  later  when,  in  the 
tack  part  of  the  bookstore  Henry  Fenn  sat,  jaded,  haggard, 
and  with  his  dull  face  drawn  with  remorse, — a  burned-out 
sky  rocket.  Bro/therton  was  busy  with  his  customers,  but 
in  a  lull,  and  between  sales  as  the  trade  passed  in  and  out, 
they  talked.  Sometimes  a  customer  coming  in  would  in 
terrupt  them,  but  the  talk  went  on  as  trade  flowed  by.  It 
ran  thus  : 

"Yes,  George,  but  it's  my  salvation.  She's  the  only  an 
chor  I  have  on  earth." 

' '  But  she  didn  't  hold  you  yesterday. ' ' 

"I  know,  but  God,  George,  it  was  terrific,  the  way  that 
thing  grabbed  me  yesterday.  But  it's  all  gone  now." 

"I  know,  Henry,  but  it  will  come  back — can't  you  see 
what  you'll  be  doing  to  her?" 

Fenn,  gray  of  face,  with  his  straight,  colorless  hair,  with 
his  staring  eyes,  with  his  listless  form,  sat  head  in  hands, 
gazing  at  the  floor.  He  did  not  look  up  as  he  replied: 
"George,  I  just  can't  give  her  up;  I  won't  give  her  up," 
he  cried.  "I  believe,  after  the  depths  of  love  she  showed 
me  in  her  soul  last  night,  I'd  take  her,  if  I  knew  I  was  taking 


HENRY  FENN  MAKES  AN  EXPERIMENT   97 

us  both  to  hell.  Just  let  me  have  a  home,  George, — and  her 
and  children — George,  I  know  children  would  hold  me — 
lots  of  children — I  can  make  money.  I've  got  money — all 
I  need  to  marry  on,  and  well  have  a  home  and  children  and 
they  will  hold  me — keep  me  up." 

In  Volume  XXI  of  the  "Psychological  Society's  Publica 
tions,"  page  374,  will  be  found  a  part  of  the  observations 
of  "Mr.  Left,"  together  with  copious  notes  upon  the  Adams 
case  by  an  eminent  authority.  The  excerpt  herewith 
printed  is  attributed  by  Mr.  Left  to  Darwin  or  Huxley  or 
perhaps  one  of  the  Brownings — it  is  unimportant  to  note 
just  which  one,  for  Mr.  Left  gleaned  from  a  wide  circle  of 
intellects.  The  interesting  thing  is  that  about  the  time 
these  love  affairs  we  are  considering  were  brewing,  Mr. 
Left  wrote :  "If  the  natural  selection  of  love  is  the  triumph 
of  evolution  on  this  planet,  if  the  free  choice  of  youth  and 
maiden,  unhampered  by  class  or  nationality,  or  wealth,  or 
age,  or  parental  interference,  or  thought  of  material  advan 
tage,  is  the  greatest  step  taken  by  life  since  it  came  mys 
teriously  into  this  earth,  how  much  of  the  importance  of 
the  natural  selection  of  youth  in  love  hangs  upon  full  and 
free  access  to  all  the  data  necessary  for  choice." 

What  irony  was  in  the  free  choice  of  these  lovers  here  in 
Harvey  that  day  when  Mr.  Left  wrote  this.  What  did 
Henry  Fenn  know  of  the  heart  or  the  soul  of  the  woman  he 
adored?  What  did  Laura  Nesbit  know  9f  her  lover  and 
what  did  he  know  of  her?  They  all  four  walked  blind 
folded.  Free  choice  for  them  was  as  remote  and  impos 
sible  as  it  would  have  been  if  they  had  been  auctioned  into 
bondage. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH   MAKY  ADAMS   TAKES  A  MUCH   NEEDED   REST 

THE  changing  seasons  moved  from  autumn  to  winter, 
from  winter  to  spring.  One  gray,  wet  March  day, 
Grant  Adams  stood  by  the  counter  asking  Mr.  Broth- 
erton  to  send  to  the  city  for  roses. 

" White  roses,  a  dozen  white  roses."  Mr.  Brotherton 
turned  his  broad  back  as  he  wrote  the  order,  and  said 
gently:  "They'll  be  down  on  No.  11  to-night,  Grant,;  I'll 
send  'em  right  out." 

As  Grant  stood  hesitating,  ready  to  go,  but  dreading  the 
street,  Dr.  Nesbit  came  in.  He  pressed  the  youth's  hand 
and  did  not  speak.  He  bought  his  tobacco  and  stood  clean 
ing  his  pipe.  ''Could  your  father  sleep  any  after — when 
I  left,  Grant?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "Mrs.  Nesbit  is  out 
there,  isn't  she?"  the  Doctor  asked  again. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  youth,  "she  and  Laura  came  out  be 
fore  we  had  breakfast.  And  Mrs.  Dexter  is  there." 

"Has  any  one  else  come?"  asked  the  Doctor,  looking  up 
sharply  from  his  pipe,  and  added,  "I  sent  word  to  Mar 
garet  Miiller." 

Grant  shook  his  head  and  the  Doctor  left  the  shop.  At 
the  doorway  he  met  Captain  Morton,  and  seemed  to  be 
telling  him  the  news,  for  the  Captain's  face  showed  the 
sorrow  and  concern  that  he  felt.  He  hurried  in  and  took 
Grant's  hand  and  held  it  affectionately. 

"Grant,  your  mother  was  with  my  wife  her  last  night  on 
earth;  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  son.  I'll  run  right  down 
to  your  father." 

And  the  Captain  left  in  the  corner  of  the  store  the  model 
of  a  patent  coffee  pot  he  was  handling  at  the  time  and 
went  away  without  his  morning  paper.  Mr.  Van  Dorn 

98 


MARY  ADAMS  TAKES  A  EEST  99 

came  in,  picked  up  his  paper,  snipped  off  the  end  of  his 
cigar  at  the  machine,  lighted  the  cigar,  considered  his  fine 
raiment  a  moment,  adjusted  his  soft  hat  at  a  proper  angle, 
pulled  up  his  tie,  and  seeing  the  youth,  said:  "By  George, 
young  man,  this  is  sad  news  I  hear;  give  the  good  father 
my  sympathy.  Too  bad." 

When  Grant  went  home,  the  silence  of  death  hung  over 
the  little  house,  in  spite  of  the  bustling  of  Mrs.  Nesbit. 
And  Grant  sat  outside  on  a  stone  by  his  father  under  the 
gray  sky. 

In  the  house  the  prattle  of  the  child  with  the  women  made 
the  house  seem  pitifully  lonesome.  Jasper  was  expressing 
his  sorrow  by  chopping  wood  down  in  the  timber.  Jasper 
was  an  odd  sheep  in  the  flock ;  he  was  a  Sands  after  Daniel 's 
own  heart.  So  Grant  and  his  father  sat  together  mourning 
in  silence.  Finally  the  father  drew  in  a  deep  broken  breath, 
and  spoke  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground: 

"  'These  also  died  in  the  faith,  without  having  received 
the  promise!'  "  Then  he  lifted  up  his  face  and  mourned, 
"Mary— Mary— "  and  again,  "Oh,  Mary,  we  need— 
The  child's  voice  inside  the  house  calling  fretfully,  "Mother! 
mother!"  came  to  the  two  and  brought  a  quick  cramp  to 
the  older  man's  throat  and  tears  to  his  eyes.  Finally,  Amos 
found  voice  to  say: 

"I  was  thinking  how  we — you  and  I  and  Jasper  need 
mother!  But  our  need  is  as  nothing  compared  with  the 
baby's.  Poor— lonely  little  thing!  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  for  him,  Grant."  He  turned  to  his  son  helplessly. 

Again  the  little  voice  was  lifted,  and  Laura  Nesbit  could 
be  heard  hushing  the  child's  complaint.  Not  looking  at  his 
father,  Grant  spoke :  * '  Dr.  Nesbit  said  he  had  let  Margaret 
know — ' ' 

The  father  shook  his  head  and  returned,  "I  presumed  he 
would ! "  He  looked  into  his  son 's  face  and  said :  ' '  Maggie 
doesn't  see  things  as  we  do,  son.  But,  oh — what  can  we 
do !  And  the  little  fellow  needs  her — needs  some  one,  who 
will  love  him  and  take  care  of  him.  Oh,  Mary— Mary— "  he 
cried  from  his  bewildered  heart.  "Be  with  us,  Mary,  and 
show  us  what  to  do ! " 

Grant  rose,  went  into  the  house,  bundled  up  Kenyon  and 


100  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

between  showers  carried  him  and  walked  with  him  through 
the  bleak  woods  of  March,  where  the  red  bird's  joyous  song 
only  cut  into  his  heart  and  made  the  young  man  press  closer 
to  him  the  little  form  that  snuggled  in  his  arms. 

At  night  Jasper  went  to  his  room  above  the  kitchen  and 
the  father  turned  to  his  lonely  bed.  In  the  cold  parlor  Mary 
Adams  lay.  Grant  sat  in  the  kitchen  by  the  stove,  pressing 
to  his  face  his  mother's  apron,  only  three  days  before  left 
hanging  by  her  own  hands  on  the  kitchen  door.  He  clung 
to  this  last  touch  of  her  fingers,  through  the  long  night,  and 
as  he  sat  there  his  heart  filled  with  a  blind,  vague,  rather  im 
potent  purpose  to  take  his  mother's  place  with  Kenyon. 
From  time  to  time  he  rose  to  put  wood  in  the  stove,  but  al 
ways  when  he  went  back  to  his  chair,  and  stroked  the  apron 
with  his  face,  the  baby  seemed  to  be  clinging  to  him.  The 
thought  of  the  little  hands  forever  tugging  at  her  apron 
racked  him  with  sobs  long  after  his  tears  were  gone. 

And  so  as  responsibility  rose  in  him  he  stepped  across  the 
border  from  youth  to  manhood. 

They  made  him  dress  in  his  Sunday  best  the  next  morning 
and  he  was  still  so  close  to  that  borderland  of  boyhood  that 
he  was  standing  about  the  yard  near  the  gate,  looking 
rather  lost  and  awkward  when  the  Nesbits  drove  up  with 
Kenyon,  whom  they  had  taken  for  the  night.  When  the 
others  had  gone  into  the  house  the  Doctor  asked : 

"Did  she  come,  Grant?" 

The  youth  lifted  his  face  to  the  Doctor  and  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  eye  as  man  to  man  and  answered  sharply, 
"No." 

The  Doctor  cocked  one  eye  reflectively  and  said  slowly, 
1 1  So — ' '  and  drove  away. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  when  the  Adamses  came  back  from 
the  cemetery  to  the  empty  house.  But  a  bright  fire  was 
burning  in  the  kitchen  stove  and  the  kettle  was  boiling  and 
the  odor  of  food  cooking  in  the  oven  was  in  the  air.  Kenyon 
was  moving  fitfully  about  the  front  room.  Mrs.  Dexter  was 
quietly  setting  the  table.  Amos  Adams  hung  up  his  hat, 
took  off  his  coat,  and  went  to  his  rocker  by  the  kitchen 
door;  Jasper  sat  stiffly  in  the  front  room.  Grant  met  Mrs. 
Dexter  in  the  dining  room,  and  she  saw  that  the  child  had 


MARY  ADAMS  TAKES  A  REST  101 

hold  of  the  young  man's  finger  and  she  heard  the  baby 
calling,  * '  Mother — mother !  Grant,  I  want  mother ! ' '  with  a 
plaintive  little  cry,  over  and  over  again.  Grant  played  with 
the  child,  showed  the  little  fellow  his  toys  and  tried  to  stop 
the  incessant  call  of  "Mother — mother — where 's  mother!" 
At  last  the  boy 's  eyes  filled.  He  picked  up  the  child,  knock 
ing  his  own  new  hat  roughly  to  the  floor.  He  drew  up  his 
chin,  straightened  his  trembling  jaw,  batted  his  eyes  so  that 
the  moisture  left  them  and  said  to  his  father  in  a  hard,  low 
voice — a  man's  voice: 

''I  am  going  to  Margaret;  she  must  help." 

It  was  dark  when  he  came  to  town  and  walked  up  Congress 
Street  with  the  little  one  snuggled  in  his  arms.  Just  be 
fore  he  arrived  at  the  house,  the  restless  child  had  asked 
to  walk,  and  they  went  hand  in  hand  up  the  steps  of  the 
house  where  Margaret  Miiller  lived.  She  was  sitting  alone 
on  the  veranda — clearly  waiting  for  some  one,  and  when  she 
saw  who  was  coming  up  the  steps  she  rose  and  hurried  to 
them,  greeting  them  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  veranda. 
She  was  white  and  her  bosom  was  fluttering  as  she  asked  in 
a  tense  whisper: 

"What  do  you  want — quick,  what  do  you  want?" 

She  stood  before  Grant,  as  if  stopping  his  progress.  The 
child's  plaintive  cry,  "Mother — Grant,  I  want  mother!" 
not  in  grief,  but  in  a  great  question,  was  the  answer. 

He  looked  into  her  staring,  terror-stricken  eyes  until  they 
drooped  and  for  a  moment  he  dominated  her.  But  she 
came  back  from  some  outpost  of  her  nature  with  reenforce- 
ments. 

' '  Get  out  of  here — get  out  of  here.  Don 't  come  here  with 
your  brat — get  out,"  she  snarled  in  a  whisper.  The  child 
went  to  her,  plucked  her  skirts  and  cried,  "Mother,  mother." 
Grant  pointed  to  the  baby  and  broke  out:  "Oh,  Maggie — 
what 's  to  become  of  Kenyon  ? — what  can  I  do  !  He 's  only 
got  you  now.  Oh,  Maggie,  won 't  you  come  ? ' '  He  saw  fear 
flit  across  her  face  in  a  tense  second  before  she  answered. 
Then  fear  left  and  she  crouched  at  him  trembling,  red- 
eyed,  gaping,  mouthed,  the  embodiment  of  determined  hate ; 
swiping  the  child's  little  hands  away  from  her,  she  snapped: 

"Get  out  of  here! — leave!  quick!"     He  stood  stubbornly 


102  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

before  her  and  only  the  child 's  voice  crying,  ' '  Grant,  Grant, 
I  want  to  go  home  to  mother/'  filled  the  silence.  Finally 
she  spoke  again,  cutting  through  the  baby's  complaint.  "I 
shall  never,  never,  never  take  that  child ;  I  loathe  him,  and  I 
hate  you  and  I  want  both  of  you  always  to  keep  away  from 
me." 

Without  looking  at  her  again,  he  caught  up  the  toddling 
child,  lifted  it  to  his  shoulder  and  walked  down  the  steps. 
As  they  turned  into  the  street  they  ran  into  Henry  Fenn, 
who  in  his  free  choice  of  a  mate  was  hurrying  to  one  who 
he  thought  would  give  him  a  home — a  home  and  children, 
many  children  to  stand  between  him  and  his  own  insatiate 
devil.  Henry  greeted  Grant: 

"Why,  boy — oh,  yes,  been  to  see  Maggie?  I  wish  she 
could  help  you,  Grant." 

And  from  the  veranda  came  a  sweet,  rich  voice,  crying: 

"Yes,  Henry — do  you  know  where  they  can  get  a  good 
nurse  girl?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

HERE  OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  AND  CAN  FIND  ONLY  DUST 

HENRY  FENN  and  Margaret  Miiller  sat  naming 
their  wedding  day,  while  Grant  Adams  walked 
home  with  his  burden.  Henry  Fenn  had  been  fight 
ing  through  a  long  winter,  against  the  lust  for  liquor  that 
was  consuming  his  flesh.  At  times  it  seemed  to  him 
that  her  presence  as  he  fought  his  battle,  helped  him;  but 
there  were  phases  of  his  fight,  when  she  too  fashioned  her 
self  in  his  imagination  as  a  temptress,  and  she  seemed  to  blow 
upon  the  coals  that  were  searing  his  weak  flesh. 

At  such  times  he  was  taciturn,  and  went  about  his  day's 
work  as  one  who  is  busy  at  a  serious  task.  He  smiled  his 
amiable  smile,  he  played  his  man's  part  in  the  world  with 
out  whimpering,  and  fought  on  like  a  gentleman.  The  night 
he  met  Grant  and  the  child  at  the  steps  of  the  house  where 
Margaret  lived,  he  had  called  to  set  the  day  for  their  mar 
riage.  And  that  night  she  glowed  before  him  and  in  his 
arms  like  a  very  brand  of  a  woman  blown  upon  by  some 
wind  from  another  world.  When  he  left  her  his  throat 
grew  parched  and  dry  and  his  lips  quivered  with  a  desire 
for  liquor  that  seemed  to  simmer  in  his  vitals.  But  he  set 
his  teeth,  and  ran  to  his  room,  and  locked  himself  in,  throw 
ing  the  key  out  of  the  window  into  the  yard.  He  sat  shiver 
ing  and  whimpering  and  fighting,  by  turns  conquering  his 
devil,  and  panting  under  its  weight,  but  always  with  the  fig 
ure  and  face  of  his  beloved  in  his  eyes,  sometimes  beckoning 
him  to  fight  on,  sometimes  coaxing  him  to  yield  and  stop  the 
struggle.  But  as  the  day  came  in  he  fell  asleep  with  one 
more  battle  to  his  credit. 

In  Harvey  for  many  years  Henry  Fenn's  name  was  a 
byword;  but  the  pitying  angels  who  have  seen  him  fight  in 
the  day s  of  his  strength  and  manhood — they  looked  at  Henry 

103 


104  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Fenn,  and  touched  reverent  foreheads  in  his  high  honor. 
Then  why  did  they  who  know  our  hearts  so  well,  let  the 
blow  fall  upon  him,  you  ask.  But  there  you  trespass  upon 
that  old  question  that  the  Doctor  and  Amos  Adams  have 
thrashed  out  so  long.  Has  man  a  free  will,  or  has  the  illu 
sion  of  time  and  space  wound  him  up  in  its  predestined 
tangle,  to  act  as  he  must  and  be  what  he  is  without  appeal 
or  resistance,  or  even  hope  of  a  pardon? 

Doctor  Nesbit  and  Amos  Adams  were  trying  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  human  destiny  at  the  gate  of  the  Adams'  home 
the  day  after  the  funeral.  Amos  had  his  foot  on  the  hub 
of  the  Doctor's  buggy  and  was  saying:  "But  Doctor,  can't 
you  see  that  it  isn't  all  material?  Suppose  that  every  atom 
of  the  universe  does  affect  every  other  atom,  and  that  the 
accumulated  effect  of  past  action  holds  the  stars  in  their 
courses,  and  that  if  we  knew  what  all  the  past  was  we  should 
be  able  to  foretell  the  future,  because  it  would  be  mathe 
matically  calculable — what  of  it  ?  That  does  not  prove  your 
case,  man!  Can't  you  see  that  in  free  will  another  element 
enters — the  spiritual,  if  you  please,  that  is  not  amenable 
to  atomic  action  past  or  present?"  Amos  smiled  deprecat- 
ingly  and  added  sadly :  * '  Got  that  last  night  from  Schopen 
hauer."  The  Doctor,  clearly  unawed  by  Schopenhauer, 
broke  out:  "Aye,  there  I  have  you,  Amos.  Isn't  the  brain 
matter,  and  doesn't  the  brain  secrete  consciousness?" 

"Does  this  buggy  secrete  distance,  Jim?  Go  'long  with 
you,  man."  Before  the  Doctor  could  reply,  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  bringing  little  Kenyon  Adams  in  his 
best  bib  and  tucker,  came  the  lofty  figure  of  Mrs.  Nesbit. 
With  her  came  her  daughter.  Then  up  spoke  Mrs.  Bedelia 
Satterthwaite  Nesbit  of  the  Maryland  Satterthwaites,  "Look 
here,  Amos  Adams — I  don't  care  what  you  say,  I'm  going 
to  take  this  baby."  There  was  strong  emphasis  upon  the 
"I'm,"  and  she  went  on:  "You  can  have  him  every  night, 
and  Grant  can  take  care  of  the  child  after  supper  when  he 
comes  home  from  work.  But  every  morning  at  eight  I  'm  go 
ing  to  have  this  baby."  Further  emphasis  upon  the  first 
person.  "I'm  not  going  to  see  a  child  turned  over  to  a 
hired  girl  all  day  and  me  with  a  big  house  and  no  baby  and 
a  daughter  about  to  marry  and  leave  me  and  a  houseful  of 


OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  105 

help,  if  I  needed  it,  which  thank  Heavens  I  don't."  She 
put  her  lips  together  sternly,  and,  "Not  a  word,  Amos 
Adams,"  she  said  to  Amos,  who  had  not  opened  his  mouth. 
"Not  another  word.  Kenyon  will  be  home  at  six  o'clock." 

She  put  the  child  into  the  Doctor's  submissive  arms — 
helped  her  daughter  into  the  buggy,  and  when  she  had 
climbed  in  herself,  she  glared  triumphantly  over  her  glasses 
and  above  her  Roman  nose,  as  she  said:  "Now,  Amos — 
have  some  sense.  Doctor, — go  on."  And  in  a  moment  the 
buggy  was  spinning  up  the  hill  toward  the  town. 

Thus  it  was  that  every  day,  rain  or  shine,  until  the  day 
of  her  wedding,  Laura  Nesbit  drove  her  dog  cart  to  the 
Adamses  before  the  men  went  to  their  work  and  took  little 
Kenyon  home  with  her  and  brought  him  back  in"  the  evening. 
And  always  she  took  him  from  the  arms  of  Grant — Grant, 
redheaded,  freckled,  blue-eyed,  who  was  hardening  into  man 
hood  and  premature  maturity  so  fast  that  he  did  not  realize 
the  change  that  it  made  in  his  face.  It  grew  set,  but  not 
hard,  a  woman's  tenderness  crept  into  the  features,  and 
with  that  tenderness  came  at  times  a  look  of  petulant  im 
patience.  It  was  a  sad  face — a  sadly  fanatic  face — yet  one 
that  lighted  with  human  feeling  under  a  smile. 

Little  by  little,  meeting  daily — often  meeting  morning  and 
evening,  Grant  and  Laura  established  a  homely,  wholesome, 
comfortable  relation. 

One  evening  while  Laura  was  waiting  for  Tom  Van  Dorn 
and  Grant  was  waiting  for  Kenyon  she  and  Grant  sitting 
upon  the  veranda  steps  of  the  Nesbit  home,  looked  into  the 
serene,  wide  lawn  that  topped  the  hill  above  the  quiet  town. 
They  could  look  across  the  white  and  green  of  the  trees  and 
houses,  across  the  prosperous,  solid,  red  roofs  of  the  stone 
and  brick  stores  and  offices  on  Market  Street,  into  the  black 
smudge  of  smoke  and  the  gray,  unpainted,  sprawling  rows 
of  ill-kept  tenements  around  the  coal  mines,  that  was  South 
Harvey.  They  could  see  even  then  the  sky  stains  far  down 
the  Wahoo  Valley,  where  the  villages  of  Foley  and  Magnus 
rose  and  duplicated  the  ugliness  of  South  Harvey. 

The  drift  of  the  conversation  was  personal.  The  thoughts 
of  youth  are  largely  personal.  The  universe  is  measured  by 
one's  own  thumb  in  the  twenties.  "Funny,  isn't  it,"  said 


106  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Grant,  playing  with  a  honeysuckle  vine  that  climbed  the  post 
beside  him,  '  *  I  guess  I  'm  the  only  one  of  the  old  crowd  who 
is  outlawed  in  overalls.  There's  Freddie  Kollander  and 
Nate  Perry  and  cousin  Morty  and  little  Joe  Calvin,  all  up 
town  counterjumpiiig  or  working  in  offices.  The  girls  all 
getting  married."  He  paused.  "But  as  far  as  that  goes 
I'm  making  more  money  than  any  of  the  fellows!"  He 
paused  again  a  moment  and  added  as  he  gazed  moodily  into 
the  pillars  of  smoke  rising  above  South  Harvey,  "Gee,  but 
I'll  miss  you  when  you're  gone — " 

The  girl's  silvery  laugh  greeted  his  words.  "Now, 
Grant,"  she  said,  "where  do  you  think  I'm  going?  Why, 
Tom  and  I  will  be  only  a  block  from  here — just  over 
on  Tenth  Street  in  the  Perry  House." 

Grant  grinned  as  he  shook  his  head.  "You're  lost  and 
gone  forever,  just  the  same,  Miss  Clementine.  In  about 
three  years  I'll  probably  be  that  'red-headed  boss  carpenter 
in  the  mine — let  me  see,  what's  his  name?'  : 

"Oh,  Grant,"  scoffed  the  girl.  She  saw  that  his  heart 
was  sadder  than  his  face. 

She  took  courage  and  said :  * '  Grant,  you  never  can  know 
how  often  I  think  of  you — how  much  I  want  you  to  win 
everything  worth  while  in  this  world,  how  much  I  want  you 
to  be  happy — how  I  believe  in  you  and — and — bet  on  you, 
Grant — bet  on  you  ! ' ' 

Grant  did  not  answer  her.  Presently  he  looked  up  and 
over  the  broad  valley  below  them.  The  sun  behind  the 
house  was  touching  the  limestone  ledge  far  across  the  valley 
with  golden  rays.  The  smoke  from  South  Harvey  on  their 
right  was  lighted  also.  The  youth  looked  into  the  smoke. 
Then  he  turned  his  eyes  back  from  the  glowing  smoke  and 
spoke. 

"This  is  how  I  look  at  it.  I  don't  mean  you're  any  dif 
ferent  from  any  one  else.  What  I  was  trying  to  say  was 
that  I'm  the  only  one  of  our  old  crowd  in  the  High  School 
you  know  that  used  to  have  parties  and  go  together  in  the 
old  days — I'm  the  only  one  that's  wearing  overalls,  and  my 
way  is  down  there";  he  nodded  his  head  toward  the  mines 
and  smelters  and  factories  in  the  valley. 

"Look  at  these  hands,"  he  said,  solemnly  spreading  out 


OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  107 

his  wide,  muscular  hands  on  his  knees ;  showing  one  bruised 
blue-black  finger  nail.  The  hands  were  flinty  and  hairy 
and  brown,  but  they  looked  effective  with  an  intelligence 
almost  apart  from  the  body  which  they  served. 

"I'm  cut  out  for  work.  It's  all  right.  That's  my  job, 
and  I  'in  proud  of  it  so  far  as  that  goes.  I  could  get  a  place 
clerking  if  I  wanted  to,  and  be  in  the  dancing  crowd  in  six 
months,  and  be  out  to  the  Van  Dorns  for  dinner  in  a  year. ' ' 
He  paused  and  looked  into  the  distant  valley  and  cried. 
"But  I  tell  you — my  job  is  down  there.  And  I'm  not  going 
to  quit  them.  God  knows  they're  getting  the  rough  end  of 
it.  If  you  knew,"  his  voice  raised  slightly  and  a  petulant 
indignation  tempered  it.  "If  you  knew  the  gouging  and 
pocket  picking  and  meanness  that  is  done  by  the  people 
up  town  to  the  people  down  there  in  the  smoke,  you'd  be 
one  of  those  howling  red-mouthed  anarchists  you  read 
about." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  silently  and  at  length  asked :  ' '  For 
instance — what's  just  one  thing?" 

"Well,  for  instance — in  the  mines  where  I  work  all  the 
men  come  up  grimy  and  greasy  and  vile.  They  have  to 
wash.  In  Europe  we  roughnecks  know  that  wash-houses 
are  provided  by  the  company,  but  here,"  he  cried  excitedly, 
"the  company  doesn't  provide  even  a  faucet;  instead  the 
men — father  and  son  and  maybe  a  boarder  or  two  have  to  go 
home — into  those  little  one  and  two  roomed  houses  the  com 
pany  has  built,  and  strip  to  the  hide  with  the  house  full  of 
children  and  wash.  What  if  your  girlhood  had  been  used  to 
seeing  things  like  that — could  you  laugh  as  you  laugh 
now?"  He  looked  up  at  her  savagely.  "Oh,  I  know 
they're  ignorant  foreigners  and  little  better  than  animals 
and  those  things  don't  hurt  them— only  if  you  had  a  little 
girl  who  had  to  be  in  and  out  of  the  single  room  of  your 
home  when  the  men  came  home  to  wash  up — 

He  broke  off,  and  then  began  again,  "Why,  I  was  talking 
to  a  dago  last  night  at  the  shaft  mouth  going  down  to  work 
on  the  graveyard  shift  and  he  said  that  he  came  here  be 
lieving  he  would  find  a  free,  beautiful  country  in  which  his 
children  could  grow  up  self-respecting  men  and  women,  and 
then  he  told  me  about  his  little  girls  living  down  there 


108  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

where  all  the  vice  is  scattered  through- the  tenements,  and — 
about  this  washing  up  proposition,  and  now  one  of  the  girls 
is  gone  and  they  can't  find  her."  He  threw  out  a  despair 
ing  hand;  "So  I'm  a  roughneck,  Laura — I'm  a  jay,  and 
I'm  going  to  stay  with  them." 

'  *  But  your  people, ' '  she  urged.  * l  What  about  them — your 
father  and  brothers?" 

"Jap's  climbing  out.  Father's  too  old  to  get  in.  And 
Kenyon — "  he  flinched,  "I  hope  to  God  I'll  have  the  nerve 
to  stay  when  the  test  on  him  comes. ' '  He  turned  to  the  girl 
passionately:  "But  you — you — oh,  you — I  want  you  to 
know — "  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  rose  and 
walked  into  the  house  and  called:  "Dad — Kenyon — come 
on,  it's  getting  late.  Stars  are  coming  out." 

Half  an  hour  later  Tom  Van  Dorn,  in  white  flannels,  with 
a  red  silk  tie,  and  with  a  white  hat  and  shoes,  came  strid 
ing  across  the  lawn.  His  black  silky  mustache,  his  soft 
black  hair,  his  olive  skin,  his  shining  black  eyes,  his  alert  emo 
tional  face,  dark  and  swarthy,  was  heightened  even  in  the 
twilight  by  the  soft  white  clothes  he  wore. 

' '  Hello,  popper-in-law, ' '  he  cried.  ' '  Any  room  left  on  the 
veranda  ? ' J 

' '  Come  in,  Thomas, ' '  piped  the  older  man.  ' '  The  girls  are 
doing  the  dishes,  Bedelia  and  Laura,  and  we'll  just  sit  out 
two  or  three  dances. ' ' 

The  young  man  lolled  in  the  hammock  shaded  by  the  vines. 
The  elder  smoked  and  reflected.  Then  slowly  and  by  de 
grees,  as  men  who  are  feeling  their  way  to  conversation, 
they  began  talking  of  local  politics.  They  were  going  at  a 
high  rate  when  the  talk  turned  to  Henry  Femi.  "Doing 
pretty  well,  Doctor,"  put  in  the  younger  man.  "Only 
broke  over  once  in  eighteen  months — that's  the  record  for 
Henry.  Shows  what  a  woman  can  do  for  a  man."  He 
looked  up  sympathetically,  and  caught  the  Doctor's  curious 
eyes. 

The  Doctor  puffed,  cleaned  out  his  pipe,  absently  put  it 
away,  then  rose  arid  deliberately  pulled  his  chair  over  to  the 
hammock:  "Tom — I'm  a  generation  older  than  you — 
nearly.  I  want  to  tell  you  something — "  He  smiled. 
"Boy — you've  got  the  devil's  own  fight  ahead  of  you — did 


OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  109 

you  know  it — I  mean,"  he  paused,  "the — well,  the  woman 
proposition." 

Van    Dorn    fingered  his    mustache,  and    looked    serious. 

1  'Tom,'7  the  elder  man  chirped,  "you're  a  handsome  pup 
— a  damn  handsome,  lovable  pup.  Sometimes."  He  let  his 
voice  run  whimsically  into  its  mocking  falsetto,  "I  almost 
catch  myself  getting  fooled  too." 

They  laughed. 

"Boy,  the  thing's  in  your  blood.  Did  you  realize  that 
you've  got  just  as  hard  a  fight  as  poor  Henry  Fenn?  It's 
all  right  now — for  a  while;  but  the  time  will  come — we 
might  just  as  well  look  this  thing  squarely  in  the  face  now, 
Tom — the  time  will  come  in  a  few  years  when  the  devil  will 
build  the  same  kind  of  a  fire  under  you  he  is  building  under 
Henry  Fenn — only  it  won't  be  whisky;  it  will  be  the  woman 
proposition.  Damn  it,  boy,"  cried  the  elder  man  squeakily, 
"it's  in  your  blood;  you've  let  it  grow  in  your  very  blood. 
I've  known  you  ten  years  now,  and  I've  seen  it  grow.  Tom — 
when  the  time  comes,  can  you  stand  up  and  fight  like 
Henry  Fenn — can  you,  Tom?  And  will  you?"  he  cried 
with  a  piteous  fierceness  that  stirred  all  the  sympathy  in  the 
young  man's  heart. 

He  rose  to  the  height  of  the  Doctor's  passion.  Tears 
came  into  Van  Dorn's  bright  eyes.  His  breast  expanded 
emotionally  and  he  exclaimed:  "I  know  what  I  arn,  oh,  I 
know  it.  But  for  her — you  and  I  together — you'll  help 
and  we'll  stand  together  and  fight  it  out  for  her."  The 
father  looked  at  the  mobile  features  of  his  companion,  and 
sensed  the  thin  plating  of  emotion  under  the  vain  voice. 
Whereupon  the  Doctor  heaved  a  deep,  troubled  sigh. 

"Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho."  He  put  his  arm  upon  the  broad, 
handsome,  young  shoulder.  "But  you'll  try  to  be  a  good 
boy,  won't  you —  "  he  repeated.  "Just  try  hard  to  be  a  good 
boy,  Tom — that's  all  any  of  us  can  do,"  and  turning  away 
he  whistled  into  the  house  and  a  girlish  trill  answered  him. 

After  the  Doctor  had  jogged  down  the  hill  behind  his  old 
horse  making  his  evening  professional  visits,  Mrs.  Nesbit 
came  out  and  made  a  show  of  sitting  with  the  young  people 
for  a  time.  And  not  until  she  left  did  they  go  into  those 
things  that  were  near  their  hearts. 


110  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

When  Mrs.  Nesbit  left  the  veranda  the  young  man  moved 
over  to  the  girl  and  she  asked:  "Tom,  I  wonder — oh,  so 
much  and  so  often — about  the  soul  of  us  and  the  body  of 
us — about  the  justice  of  things."  She  was  speaking  out  of 
the  heart  that  Grant  had  touched  to  the  quick  with  his  out 
burst  about  the  poor.  But  Tom  Van  Dorn  could  not  know 
what  was  moving  within  her  and  if  he  had  known,  perhaps 
he  would  have  had  small  sympathy  with  her  feeling.  Then 
she  said:  "Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  tell  me — don't  you  suppose  that 
our  souls  pay  for  the  bodies  that  we  crush — I  mean  all  of 
us — all  of  us — every  one  in  the  world?" 

The  man  looked  at  her  blankly.  Then  he  put  his  arm 
tenderly  about  her  and  answered:  "I  don't  know  about 
our  souls — much — "  He  kissed  her.  "But  I  do  know 
about  you — your  wonderful  eyes — and  your  magic  hair,  and 
your  soft  cheek!"  He  left  her  in  no  doubt  as  to  her  lover's 
mood. 

Vaguely  the  girl  felt  unsatisfied  with  his  words.  Not  that 
she  doubted  the  truth  of  them;  but  as  she  drew  back  from 
him  she  said  softly:  "But  if  I  were  not  beautiful,  what 
then?" 

"Ah,  but  you  are — you  are;  in  all  the  world  there  is  not 
another  like  you  for  me."  In  the  rapture  that  followed,  her 
soul  grew  in  a  wave  of  joy,  yet  she  spoke  shyly. 

"Tom,"  she  said  wistfully,  "how  can  you  fail  to  see  it — 
this  great,  beautiful  truth  that  makes  me  so  glad :  That  the 
miracle  of  our  love  proves  God." 

He  caressed  her  hands  and  pressed  closer  to  her.  "Call 
it  what  you  will,  little  girl :  God  if  it  pleases  you,  I  call  it 
nature." 

"Oh,  it's  bigger  than  that,  Tom,"  and  she  shook  a  stub 
born  Satterthwaite  head,  "and  it  makes  me  so  happy  and 
makes  me  so  humble  that  I  want  to  share  it  with  all  the 
world."  She  laid  an  abashed  cheek  on  his  hands  that  were 
still  fondling  hers. 

But  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn  spoke  up  manfully,  "Well, 
don't  you  try  sharing  it.  I  want  all  of  it,  every  bit  of  it." 
He  played  with  her  hair,  and  relaxed  in  a  languor  of  com 
plete  possession  of  her. 


OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  111 

" Doesn't  love,"  she  questioned,  "lift  you?  Doesn't  it 
make  you  love  every  living  thing  ? ' '  she  urged. 

"I  love  only  you— only  you  in  all  the  world— your  eyes 
thrill  me ;  when  your  body  is  near  I  am  mad  with  delight ; 
when  I  touch  you  I  am  in  heaven.  When  I  close  my  eyes 
before  the  jury  I  see  you  and  I  put  the  bliss  of  my  vision 
into  my  voice,  and,"  he  clinched  his  hands,  "all  the  devils 
of  hell  couldn't  win  that  jury  away  from  me.  You  spur  me 
to  my  best,  put  springs  in  every  muscle,  put  power  in  my 
blood." 

* '  But,  Tom,  tell  me  this  ? ' '  Still  wistfully,  she  came  close 
to  him,  and  put  her  chin  on  her  clasped  hands  that  rested  on 
his  shoulder.  ''Love  makes  me  want  to  be  so  good,  so  loyal, 
so  brave,  so  kind — isn't  it  that  way  with  you?  Isn't  love 
the  miracle  that  brings  the  soul  out  into  the  world  through 
the  senses."  She  did  not  wait  for  his  answer.  She  clasped 
her  hands  tighter  on  his  shoulder.  "I  feel  that  I'm  literally 
stealing  when  I  have  a  single  thought  that  I  do  not  bring  to 
you.  In  every  thrill  of  my  heart  about  the  humblest  thing, 
I  find  joy  in  knowing  that  we  shall  enjoy  it  together.  Let 
me  tell  you  something.  Grant  Adams  and  his  father  were 
here  to-day  for  dinner.  Well,  you  know  Grant  is  in  a  kind 
of  obsession  of  love  for  that  little  motherless  child  Mrs. 
Adams  left ;  Grant  mothers  him  and  fathers  him  and  liter 
ally  loves  him  to  distraction.  And  Grant's  growing  so 
manly,  and  so  loyal  and  so  strong  in  the  love  of  that  little 
boy — he  doesn't  realize  it;  but  I  can  see  it  in  him.  Oh, 
Tom,  can  you  see  it  in  me?" 

Before  her  mood  had  changed  she  told  him  all  that  Grant 
Adams  had  said;  and  her  voice  broke  when  she  retold  the 
Italian's  story.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  when  she  finished. 
And  young  Mr.  Van  Dorn  was  emotionally  touched  also,  but 
not  in  sympathy  with  the  story  the  girl  was  telling.  She 
ended  it: 

"And  then  I  looked  at  Grant's  big  rough  hands — bony 
and  hairy,  and  Tom,  they  told  me  the  whole  story  of  his 
destiny;  just  as  your  soft,  effective,  gentle  white  hands 
prophesy  our  destiny.  Oh,  why — why — I  am  beginning  to 
wonder  why,  Tom,  why  things  must  be  so.  Why  do  some 


112  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

of  us  have  to  do  all  the  world's  rough,  hard,  soul-killing 
work,  and  others  of  us  have  lives  that  are  beautiful,  aspir 
ing,  glorious?  How  can  we  let  such  injustices  be,  and  not 
try  to  undo  them ! ' ' 

In  his  face  an  indignation  was  rising  which  she  could 
not  comprehend.  Finally  he  found  words  to  say: 

'  *  So  that 's  what  that  Adams  boy  is  putting  in  your  head ! 
Why  do  you  want  to  bother  with  such  nonsense?" 

But  the  girl  stopped  him:  ''Tom,  it's  not  nonsense. 
They  do  work  and  dig  and  grind  down  there  in  a  way  which 
we  up  here  know  nothing  about.  It's  real — this — this  miser 
able  unfair  way  things  are  done  in  the  world.  O  my  dear, 
my  dear,  it's  because  I  love  you  so,  it's  because  I  know  now 
what  love  really  is  that  it  hurts  to  see — "  He  took  her 
face  in  his  hands  caressingly,  and  tried  to  put  an  added 
tenderness  into  his  voice  that  his  affection  might  blunt  the 
sharpness  of  his  words. 

"Well,  it's  nonsense  I  tell  you!  Look  here,  Laura,  if 
there  is  a  God,  he's  put  those  dagos  and  ignorant  foreigners 
down  there  to  work;  just  as  he's  put  the  fish  in  the  sea  to 
be  caught,  and  the  beasts  of  the  field  to  be  eaten,  and  it's 
none  of  my  business  to  ask  why!  My  job  is  myself — my 
self  and  you !  I  refuse  to  bear  burdens  for  people.  I  love 
you  with  all  the  intensity  of  my  nature — but  it's  my  nature 
—not  human  nature — not  any  common,  socialized,  diluted 
love;  it's  individual  and  it's  forever  between  you  and  me! 
What  do  I  care  for  the  rest  of  the  world !  And  if  you  love 
me  as  you  will  some  day,  you'll  love  me  so  that  they  can't 
set  you  off  mooning  about  other  people's  troubles.  I  tell 
you,  Laura,  I'm  going  to  make  you  love  me  so  you  can't 
think  of  anything  day  or  night  but  me — and  what  I  am  to 
you!  That's  my  idea  of  love!  It's  individual,  intimate,  re 
stricted,  qualified  and  absolutely  personal — and  some  day 
you'll  see  that!" 

As  he  tripped  down  the  hill  from  the  Nesbit  home  that 
spring  night,  he  wondered  what  Laura  Nesbit  meant  when 
she  spoke  of  Grant  Adams,  and  his  love  for  the  motherless 
baby.  The  idea  that  this  love  bore  any  sort  of  resemblance 
to  the  love  of  educated,  cultivated  people  as  found  in  the 
love  that  Laura  and  her  intended  husband  bore  toward  each 


OUR  FOOL  GROPES  FOR  A  SPIRIT  113 

other,  puzzled  the  young  lawyer.  Being  restless,  he  turned 
off  his  homeward  route,  and  walked  under  the  freshly  leaved 
trees.  Over  and  over  again  the  foolish  phrases  and  sen 
tences  from  Laura  Nesbit's  love  making,  many  other  nights 
in  which  she  seemed  to  assume  the  unquestioned  truth  of 
the  hypothesis  of  God,  also  puzzled  him.  Whatever  his 
books  had  taught  him,  and  whatever  life  had  taught  him, 
convinced  him  that  God  was  a  polite  word  for  explaining 
one's  failure.  Yet,  here  was  a  woman  whose  mind  he  had 
to  respect,  using  the  term  as  a  proved  theorem.  He  looked 
at  the  stars,  wheeling  about  with  the  monstrous  pulleys  of 
gravitation  and  attraction,  and  the  certain  laws  of  motion. 
A  moment  later  he  looked  southward  in  the  sky  to  that  flam 
ing,  raging,  splotched  patch  where  the  blue  and  green  and 
yellow  flames  from  the  smelters  and  the  belching  black  smoke 
from  the  factories  hid  the  low-hanging  stars  and  marked 
the  seething  hell  of  injustice  and  vice  and  want  and  woe  that 
he  knew  was  in  South  Harvey,  and  he  held  the  glowing  ciga 
rette  stub  in  his  hand  and  laughed  when  he  thought  of  God. 
1  'Free  will,"  says  "Mr.  Left"  in  one  of  his  rather  hazy 
and  unconvincing  observations,  "is  of  limited  range.  Man 
faces  two  buttons.  He  must  choose  the  material  or  the 
spiritual — and  when  he  has  chosen  fate  plays  upon  his 
choice  the  grotesque  variation  of  human  destiny.  But  when 
the  cloth  of  life  is  finished,  the  pattern  of  the  passing  events 
may  be  the  same  in  either  choice,  riches  or  poverty,  misery 
or  power,  only  the  color  of  the  cloth  differs;  in  one  piece, 
however  rich,  the  pattern  is  drab  with  despair,  the  other 
cloth  sheens  in  happiness."  Which  Mr.  Van  Dorn  in  later 
life,  reading  the  Psychological  Journal,  turned  back  to  a 
second  time,  and  threw  aside  with  a  casual  and  unapprecia- 
tive,  ' '  Oh  hell, ' '  as  his  only  comment. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN    WHICH   WE   LEARN   THAT  LOVE   IS   THE   LEVER   THAT    MOVES 

THE   WORLD 

MRS.  NESBIT  tried  to  put  the  Doctor  into  his  Sunday 
blacks  the  day  of  her  daughter's  wedding,  but  he 
would  have  none  of  them.  He  appeared  on  Market 
Street  and  went  his  rounds  among  the  sick  in  his  linen 
clothes  with  his  Panama  hat  and  his  pleated  white  shirt.  He 
did  not  propose  to  have  the  visiting  princes,  political  and 
commercial,  who  had  been  summoned  to  honor  the  occasion, 
find  him  in  his  suzerainty  without  the  insignia  of  his  power. 
For  it  was  "Old  Linen  Pants,"  not  Dr.  James  Nesbit,  who 
was  the  boss  of  the  northern  district  and  a  member  of  the 
State's  triumvirate.  So  the  Doctor  in  the  phaeton,  drawn 
by  his  amiable,  motherly,  sorrel  mare,  the  Doctor,  white  and 
resplendent  in  a  suit  that  shimmered  in  the  hot  June  sun, 
flaxed  around  town,  from  his  office  to  the  hotel,  from  the 
hotel  to  the  bank,  from  the  bank  to  South  Harvey.  As  a 
part  of  the  clay's  work  he  did  the  honors  of  the  town,  soothed 
the  woes  of  the  weary,  healed  the  sick,  closed  a  dying  man 's 
eyes,  held  a  mother's  hands  away  from  death  as  she  brought 
life  into  the  world,  made  a  governor,  paid  his  overdue  note, 
got  a  laborer  work,  gave  a  lift  to  a  fallen  woman,  made  two 
casual  purchases:  a  councilman  and  a  new  silk  vest,  with 
cash  in  hand;  lent  a  drunkard's  wife  the  money  for  a  sack 
of  flour,  showed  three  Maryland  Satterthwaites  where  to  fish 
for  bass  in  the  Wahoo,  took  four  Schenectady  Van  Dorns 
out  to  lunch,  and  was  everywhere  at  once  doing  everything, 
clicking  his  cane,  whistling  gently  or  humming  a  low,  croon 
ing  tune,  smiling  for  the  most  part,  keeping  his  own  counsel 
and  exhibiting  no  more  in  his  face  of  what  was  in  his  heart 
than  the  pink  and  dimpled  back  of  a  six-months'  baby. 

To  say  that  the  Doctor  was  everywhere  in  Harvey  is  inex 
act.     He  was  everywhere  except  on  Quality  Hill  in  Elm 

114 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  115 

Street.  There,  from  the  big,  bulging  house  with  its  towers 
and  minarets  and  bow  windows  and  lean-tos,  ells  and  addi 
tions,  the  Doctor  was  barred.  There  was  chaos,  and  the 
spirit  that  breathed  on  the  face  of  the  waters  was  the 
Harvey  representative  of  the  Maryland  Satterthwaites,  with 
her  crimping  pins  bristling  like  miniature  gun.  barrels,  and 
with  the  look  of  command  upon  her  face,  giving  orders  in  a 
firm,  cool  voice  and  then  executing  the  orders  herself  before 
any  one  else  could  turn  around.  She  could  call  the  spirits 
from  the  vasty  deep  of  the  front  hall  or  the  back  porch  and 
they  came,  or  she  knew  the  reason  why.  With  an  imperial 
wave  of  her  hand  she  sent  her  daughter  off  to  some  social 
wilderness  of  monkeys  with  all  the  female  Satterthwaites 
and  Van  Dorns  and  Mrs.  Senators  and  Miss  Governors  and 
Misses  Congressmen,  and  with  the  offices  of  Mrs.  John  Dex 
ter,  Mrs.  Herdicker,  the  ladies'  hatter,  and  two  Senegam- 
bian  slaveys,  Mrs.  Nesbit  brought  order  out  of  what  at  one 
o'clock  seemed  without  form  and  void. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  almost  evening,  though  the 
sun  still  was  high  enough  in  the  heavens  to  throw  cloud 
shadows  upon  the  hills  across  the  valley  when  the  Doctor 
stabled  his  mare  and  came  edging  into  the  house  from  the 
barn.  He  could  hear  the  clamor  of  many  voices;  for  the 
Maryland  Satterthwaites  had  come  home  from  the  after 
noon's  festivity.  He  slipped  into  his  office-study,  and  as  it 
was  stuffy  there  he  opened  the  side  door  that  let  out  upon 
the  veranda.  He  sat  alone  behind  the  vines,  not  wishing  to 
be  a  part  of  the  milling  in  the  rooms.  His  heart  was  heavy. 
He  blinked  and  sighed  and  looked  across  the  valley,  and 
crooned  his  old-fashioned  tune  while  he  tried  to  remember 
all  of  the  life  of  the  little  girl  who  had  come  out  of  the 
mystery  of  birth  into  his  life  when  Elm  Street  was  a  pair  of 
furrows  on  a  barren,  wind-swept  prairie  hill ;  tried  to  re 
member  how  she  had  romped  in  girlhood  under  the  wide  sun 
shine  in  the  prairie  grass,  how  her  little  playhouse  had  sat 
where  the  new  dining-room  now  stood,  how  her  dolls  used 
to  litter  the  narrow  porch  that  grew  into  the  winding,  ser 
pentine  veranda  that  belted  the  house,  how  she  read  his 
books,  how  she  went  about  with  him  on  his  daily  rounds, 
and  how  she  had  suddenly  bloomed  into  a  womanhood  that 


116  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

made  him  feel  shy  and  abashed  in  her  presence.  He  won 
dered  where  it  was  upon  the  way  that  he  had  lost  clasp  of 
her  hand :  where  did  it  drop  from  him  ?  How  did  the  little 
fingers  that  he  used  to  hold  so  tightly,  slip  into  another's 
hand?  Her  life's  great  decision  had  been  made  without 
consulting  him;  when  did  he  lose  her  confidence?  She  had 
gone  her  way  an  independent  soul — flown  like  a  bird  from 
the  cage,  he  thought,  and  was  going  a  way  that  he  felt  would 
be  a  way  of  pain,  and  probably  sorrow,  yet  he  could  not  stop 
her.  All  the  experience  of  his  life  was  worthless  to  her. 
All  that  he  knew  of  men,  all  that  he  feared  of  her  lover, 
were  as  chaff  in  the  scales  for  her. 

The  Doctor,  the  boss,  the  friend,  the  man,  withdrew  from 
his  consciousness  as  he  sat  behind  the  vines  and  he  became 
the  impersonal,  universal  father,  wondering  at  the  mystery 
of  life.  As  he  sat  musing,  he  heard  a  step  behind  him,  and 
saw  his  daughter  coming  across  the  porch  to  greet  him. 
"Father,"  she  said,  "I  have  just  this  half  hour  that's  to  be 
ours.  I've  planned  for  it  all  day.  Mother  has  promised 
to  keep  every  one  away." 

The  father's  jaw  began  to  tremble  and  his  cherubic  face 
to  wrinkle  in  an  emotional  pucker.  He  put  the  girl's  arm 
about  his  neck,  and  rubbed  her  hand  upon  his  cheek.  Then 
the  father  said  softly: 

"I  never  felt  poor  before  until  this  minute."  The  girl 
looked  inquiringly  at  him  and  was  about  to  protest.  He 
stopped  her:  "Money  wouldn't  do  you  much  good— not  all 
the  money  in  the  world." 

"Well,  father,  I  don't  want  money:  we  don't  need  it," 
said  the  girl.  "Why,  we  have  a  beautiful  home  and  Tom 
is  making — " 

"It's  not  that,  my  dear— not  that."  He  played  with  her 
hand  a  moment  longer.  "I  feel  that  I  ought  to  give  you 
something  better  than  money;  my — my — well,  my  view  of 
life — what  they  call  philosophy  of  life.  It's  the  accumu 
lation  of  fifty  years  of  living."  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket 
for  his  pipe.  "Let  me  smoke,  and  maybe  I  can  talk." 

"Laura— girl—  He  puffed  bashfully  in  a  pause,  and 
began  again:  :' There's  a  lot  of  Indiana— real  common 
Eendiany,"  he  mocked,  "about  your  father,  and  I  just  some 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  117 

way  can't  talk  under  pressure."  He  caressed  the  girl's 
hand  and  pulled  at  his  pipe  as  one  giving  birth  to  a  system 
of  philosophy.  Yet  he  was  dumb  as  he  sat  before  the  warm 
glow  of  the  passing  torch  of  life  which  was  shining  from  his 
daughter's  face.  Finally  he  burst  forth,  piping  impatience 
at  his  own  embarrassment. 

"I  tell  you,  daughter,  it's  just  naturally  hell  to  be  pore." 
The  girl  saw  his  twitching  mouth  and  the  impotence  of  his 
swimming  eyes ;  but  before  she  could  protest  he  checked  her. 

"Pore!  Pore!"  he  repeated  hopelessly.  "Why,  if  we 
had  a  million,  I  would  still  be  just  common,  ornery,  doless 
pore  folks — tongue-tied  and  helpless,  and  I  couldn't  give  you 
nothin' — nothin!"  he  cried,  "but  just  rubbish!  Yet  there 
are  so  many  things  I'd  like  to  give  you,  Laura — so  many, 
many  things!"  he  repeated.  "God  Almighty's  put  a  ter 
rible  hogtight  inheritance  tax  on  experience,  girl!"  He 
smiled  a  crooked,  tearful  little  smile — looked  up  into  her  eyes 
in  doglike  wistfulness  as  he  continued:  "I'd  like  to  give 
you  some  of  mine — some  of  the  wisdom  I  've  got  one  way  and 
another — but,  Lord,  Lord,"  he  wailed,  "I  can't.  The  divine 
inheritance  tax  bars  me."  He  patted  her  with  one  hand, 
holding  his  smoldering  pipe  in  the  other.  Then  he  shrilled 
out  in  the  impotence  of  his  pain:  "I  just  must  give  you 
this,  Laura:  Whatever  comes  and  whatever  goes — and  lots 
of  sad  things  will  come  and  lots  of  sad  things  will  go,  too, 
for  that  matter — always  remember  this :  Happiness  is  from 
the  heart  out — not  from  the  world  in !  Do  you  understand, 
child — do  you?" 

The  girl  smiled  and  petted  him,  but  he  saw  that  he  hadn't 
reached  her  consciousness.  He  puffed  at  a  dead  pipe  a 
moment,  then  he  cried  as  he  beat  his  hands  together  in 
despair:  "I  suppose  it's  no  use.  It's  no  use.  But  you 
can  at  least  remember  these  words,  Laura,  and  some  time 
the  meaning  will  get  to  you.  Always  carry  your  happiness 
under  your  bonnet!  It's  the  only  thing  I  can  give  you — 
out  of  all  my  store ! ' ' 

The  girl  put  her  arm  about  him  and  pressed  closely  to 
him,  and  they  rose,  as  she  said:  "Why,  father — I  under 
stand.  Of  course  I  understand.  Don't  you  see  I  under 
stand,  father?" 


118  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

She  spoke  eagerly  arid  clasped  her  arms  tighter  about  the 
pudgy  little  figure.  They  stood  quietly  a  moment,  as  the 
father  looked  earnestly,  dog-wise,  up  into  her  face,  as  if 
trying  by  his  very  gaze  to  transmit  his  loving  wisdom. 
Then,  as  he  found  voice :  * '  No,  Laura,  probably  you  '11  need 
fifty  years  to  understand;  but  look  over  on  the  hill  across 
the  valley  at  the  moving  cloud  shadows.  They  are  only 
shadows — not  realities.  They  are  just  unrealities  that  prove 
the  real — just  trailing  anchors  of  the  sun!"  He  had  pock 
eted  his  pipe  and  his  hand  came  up  from  his  pocket  as  he 
waved  to  the  distant  shadows  and  piped:  " Trouble — heart 
aches — all  the  host  of  clouds  that  cover  life— are  only — 
only — "  he  let  his  voice  drop  gently  as  he  sighed:  "only 
anchors  of  the  sun;  Laura,  they  only  prove — just  prove — " 

She  did  not  let  him  finish,  but  bent  to  kiss  him  and  she 
could  feel  the  shudder  of  a  smothered  sob  rack  him  as  she 
touched  his  cheek. 

Then  he  smiled  at  her  and  chirped:  "Just  Eendiany— 
sis'.  Just  pore,  dumb  Eendiany !  Hi,  ho!  Now  run  and 
be  a  good  girl!  And  here's  a  jim-crack  your  daddy  got 
you!" 

From  his  pocket  he  drew  out  a  little  package,  and  dan 
gled  a  sparkling  jewel  in  his  hands.  He  saw  a  flash  of 
pleasure  on  her  face.  But  his  heart  was  full,  and  he  turned 
away  his  head  as  he  handed  the  gift  to  her.  Her  eyes  were 
upon  the  sparkling  jewel,  as  he  led  her  into  the  house,  say 
ing  with  a  great  sigh:  "Come  on,  my  dear — let's  go  in." 

^At  nine  o'clock  that  night,  the  great  foundry  of  a  house, 
with  its  half  a  score  of  chimneys,  marking  its  various  epochs 
of  growth,  literally  was  stuffed  with  smilax,  ferns,  roses, 
orange  blossoms,  and  daisy  chains.  In  the  mazes  of  these 
aisles  of  verdure,  a  labyrinth  of  Van  Dorns  and  Satter- 
thwaites  and  visiting  statesmen  with  highly  powdered 
womankind  was  packed  securely.  George  Brother-ton,  who 
was  born  a  drum  major,  wearing  all  of  his  glittering  insignia 
of  a  long  line  of  secret  societies,  moved  as  though  the  welding 
humanity  were  fluid.  lie  had  presided  at  too  many  funerals 
not  to  know  the  vast  importance  of  keeping  the  bride's  kin 
from  the  groom's  kin,  and  when  he  saw  that  they  were 
ushered  into  the  wedding  supper,  in  due  form  and  order, 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  119 

it  was  with  the  fine  abandon  of  a  grand  duke  lording  it  over 
the  populace.  Senators,  Supreme  Court  justices,  proud 
Satterthwaites,  haughty  Van  Dorns,  Congressmen,  gov 
ernors,  local  gentry,  were  packed  neatly  but  firmly  in  their 
proper  boxes 

The  old  families  of  Harvey — Captain  Morton  and  his  little 
flock,  the  Kollanders,  Ahab  Wright  with  his  flaring  side- 
whiskers,  his  white  necktie  and  his  shadow  of  a  wife; 
Joseph  Calvin  and  his  daughter  in  pigtails,  Mrs.  Calvin  hav 
ing  written  Mrs.  Nesbit  that  it  seemed  that  she  just  never 
did  get  to  go  anywhere  and  be  anybody,  having  said  as  much 
and  more  to  Mr.  Calvin  with  emphasis;  Mrs.  Brothertou, 
mother  of  George,  beaming  with  pride  at  her  son's  part; 
stuttering  Kyle  Perry  and  his  hatchet-faced  son,  the 
Adamses  all  starched  for  the  occasion,  Daniel  Sands,  a 
widower  pro  tern,  with  a  broadening  interest  in  school 
teachers,  Mrs.  Herdicker,  the  ladies'  hatter,  classifying  the 
Satterthwaites  and  the  Van  Dorns  according  to  the  millinery 
of  their  womenkind ;  Morty  Sands  wearing  the  first  white 
silk  vest  exhibited  in  Harvey  and  making  violent  eyes  at  a 
daughter  of  the  railroad  aristocracy — either  a  general  man 
ager's  daughter  or  a  general  superintendent's,  and  for  the 
life  of  her  Mrs.  Nesbit  couldn't  say;  for  she  had  not  the 
highest  opinion  in  the  world  of  the  railroad  aristocracy,  but 
took  them,  president,  first,  second  and  third  vice,  general 
managers,  ticket  and  passenger  agents,  and  superintendents, 
as  a  sort  of  social  job-lot  because  they  came  in  private  cars, 
and  the  Doctor  desired  them,  to  add  to  his  trophies  of  the 
occasion, — Henry  Fenn,  wearing  soberly  the  suit  in  which 
he  appeared  when  he  rode  the  skyrocket,  and  forming  part 
of  the  bridal  chorus,  stationed  in  the  cigar-box  of  a  sewing- 
room  on  the  second  floor  to  sing,  "Oh,  Day  So  Dear,"  as 
the  happy  couple  came  down  the  stairs — the  old  families  of 
Harvey  were  all  invited  to  the  wedding.  And  the  old  and 
the  new  and  most  of  the  intermediary  families  of  no  par 
ticular  caste  or  standing,  came  to  the  reception  after  the 
ceremony.  But  because  she  had  the  best  voice  in  town, 
Margaret  Miiller  sang  "Oh,  Promise  Me,"  in  a  remote  bed 
room — to  give  the  effect  of  distant  music,  low  and  sweet,  and 
after  that  song  was  over,  and  after  Henry  Fenn's  great 


120  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

pride  had  been  fairly  sated,  Margaret  Muller  mingled  with 
the  guests  and  knew  more  of  the  names  and  stations  of  the 
visiting  nobility  from  the  state  house  and  railroad  offices 
than  any  other  person  present.  And  such  is  the  perversity 
of  the  male  sex  that  there  were  more  "by  Georges,"  and 
more  "Look — look,  looks,"  arid  more  faint  whistles,  and 
more  "Teh— tch  tchs,"  and  more  nudging  and  pointing 
among  the  men  when  Margaret  appeared  than  when  the 
bride  herself,  pink  and  white  and  beautiful,  came  down  the 
stairs.  Even  the  eyes  of  the  groom,  as  he  stood  beside  the 
bride,  tall,  youthful,  strong,  and  handsome  as  a  man  may 
dare  to  be  and  earn  an  honest  living,  even  his  eyes  some 
times  found  themselves  straying  toward  the  figure  and  face 
of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  scarcely  noticed  while 
she  worked  in  the  court  house.  But  this  may  be  said  for  the 
groom,  that  when  his  eyes  did  wander,  he  pulled  them  back 
with  an  almost  irritated  jerk,  and  seemed  determined  to  keep 
them  upon  the  girl  by  his  side. 

As  for  the  wedding  ceremony  itself — it  was  like  all  others. 
The  women  looked  exultant,  and  the  men — the  groom,  the 
bride's  father,  the  groomsmen,  and  even  Rev.  John  Dexter, 
had  a  sort  of  captured  look  and  went  through  the  service  as 
though  they  wished  that  marriages  which  are  made  in 
Heaven  were  celebrated  there  also.  But  after  the  service 
was  actually  accomplished,  after  the  bride  and  groom  had 
been  properly  congratulated,  after  the  multitude  had  been 
fed  in  serried  ranks  according  to  social  precedence,  after 
the  band  on  the  lawn  outside  had  serenaded  the  happy 
couple,  and  after  further  interminable  handshaking  and  con 
gratulations,  from  those  outside,  after  the  long  line  of  in 
vited  guests  had  filed  past  the  imposing  vista  of  pickle 
dishes,  cutlery,  butter  dishes  and  cake  plates,  reaching 
around  the  walls  of  three  bedrooms, — to  say  nothing  of  an 
elaborate  wax  representation  of  nesting  cupids  bearing  the 
card  of  the  Belgian  Society  from  the  glass  works  and  sent, 
according  to  the  card,  to  "Mile.  Lille 'n 'en  Pense";  after  the 
carriage,  bedecked  and  bedizened  with  rice  and  shoes  and 
ribbons,  that  was  supposed  to  bear  away  the  bride  and 
groom,  had  gone  amid  the  shouting  and  the  tumult  of  the 
populace,  and  after  the  phaeton  and  the  sorrel  mare  had 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  121 

actually  taken  the  bride  and  groom  from  the  barn  to  the 
railway  station,  after  the  fiddle  and  the  bassoon  and  the 
horn  and  the  tinkling  cymbal  at  Morty  Sands 's  dance  had 
frayed  and  torn  the  sleep  of  those  pale  souls  who  would 
sleep  on  such  a  night  in  Harvey,  Grant  Adams  and  his  fa 
ther,  leaving  Jasper  to  trip  whatever  fantastic  toes  he  might 
have,  in  the  opera  house,  drove  down  the  hill  through  the 
glare  of  the  furnaces,  the  creaking  of  the  oil  derricks  and 
the  smell  of  the  straw  paper  mill  through  the  heart  of  South 
Harvey. 

They  made  little  talk  as  they  rode.  Their  way  led  them 
through  the  street  which  is  shaded  and  ashamed  by  day,  and 
which  glows  and  flaunts  itself  by  night.  Men  and  women, 
gambling,  drinking,  carousing,  rioted  through  the  street,  in 
and  out  of  doors  that  spilled  puddles  of  yellow  light  on  the 
board  sidewalks  and  dirt  streets ;  screaming  laughter,  hoarse 
calls,  the  stench  of  liquor,  the  muffled  noises  of  gambling, 
sputter  of  electric  lights  and  the  flash  of  glimmering  reflec 
tions  from  bar  mirrors  rasped  their  senses  and  kept  the 
father  and  son  silent  as  they  rode.  When  they  had  passed 
into  the  slumbering  tenements,  the  father  spoke:  "Well, 
son,  here  it  is — the  two  kinds  of  playing,  and  here  we  have 
what  they  call  the  bad  people  playing.  The  Van  Dorns  and 
the  Satterthwaites  will  tell  you  that  vice  is  the  recreation 
of  the  poor.  And  it's  more  or  less  true."  The  elder  man 
scratched  his  beard  and  faced  the  stars:  "It's  a  devilish 
puzzle.  Character  makes  happiness;  I've  got  that  down 
fine.'  But  what  makes  character?  Why  is  vice  the  recrea 
tion  of  the  poor?  Why  do  we  recruit  most  of  our  bad  boys 
and  all  of  our  wayward  girls  from  those  neighborhoods  in 
every  city  where  the  poor  live  ?  Why  does  the  clerk  on  $12 
a  week  uptown  crowd  into  Doctor  Jim 's  wedding  party,  and 
the  glass  blower  at  $4  a  day  down  here  crowd  into  'Big 
Em's'  and  'Joe's  Place'  and  the  'Crescent'?  Is  poverty 
caused  by  vice;  or  is  vice  a  symptom  of  poverty?  And 
why  does  the  clerk's  wife  move  in  'our  best  circles'  and  the 
miner's  wife,  with  exactly  the  same  money  to  spend,  live 
in  outer  social  darkness  ? ' ' 

"I've  asked  myself  that  question  lots  of  times,"  ex 
claimed  the  youth.  "I  can't  make  it  work  out  on  any 


122  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

theory.  But  I  tell  you,  father,"  the  son  clinched  the  hand 
that  was  free  from  the  lines,  and  shook  it,  "it's  wrong — 
some  way,  somehow,  it's  wrong,  way  down  at  the  bottom  of 
things — I  don't  know  how  nor  why — but  as  sure  as  I  live, 
I'll  try  to  find  out." 

The  clang  of  an  engine  bell  in  the  South  Harvey  railroad 
yards  drowned  the  son's  answer.  The  two  were  crossing 
the  track  and  turning  the  corner  that  led  to  the  South 
Harvey  station.  The  midnight  train  was  about  due.  As 
the  buggy  came  near  the  little  gray  box  of  a  station  a  voice 
called,  "Adams — Adams,"  and  a  woman's  voice,  "Oh, 
Grant." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  the  father,  "it's  the  happy  couple." 
Grant  stopped  the  horse  and  climbed  out  over  the  sleeping 
body  of  little  Kenyon.  "In  a  moment,"  replied  Grant. 
Then  he  came  to  a  shadow  under  the  station  eaves  and  saw 
the  young  people  hiding.  "Adams,  you  can  help  us,"  said 
Van  Dorn.  "We  slipped  off  in  the  Doctor's  phaeton,  to  get 
away  from  the  guying  crowd  and  we  have  tried  to  get  the 
house  on  the  'phone,  and  in  some  way  they  don't  answer. 
The  horse  is  tied  over  by  the  lumber  yard  there.  Will  you 
take  it  home  with  you  to-night,  and  deliver  it  to  the  Doctor 
in  the  morning — whatever — "  But  Grant  cut  in: 

"Why,  of  course.  Glad  to  have  the  chance."  He  was 
awkward  and  ill  at  ease,  and  repeated,  "Why,  of  course, 
anything."  But  Van  Dorn  interjected:  "You  under 
stand,  I'll  pay  for  it — "  Grant  Adams  stared  at  him. 
"Why — why — no — "  stammered  Grant  in  confusion,  while 
Van  Dorn  thrust  a  five-dollar  bill  upon  him.  He  tried  to 
return  it,  but  the  bride  and  groom  ran  to  the  train,  leaving 
the  young  man  alone  and  hurt  in  his  heart.  The  father 
from  the  buggy  saw  what  had  happened.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  were  leading  the  Doctor's  horse  behind  the  Adams 
buggy.  "I  didn't  want  their  money,"  exclaimed  Grant, 
"I  wanted  their — their — " 

"You  wanted  their  friendship,  Grant — that's  what  you 
wanted,"  said  the  father. 

"And  he  wanted  a  hired  man,"  cried  Grant.  "Just  a 
hired  man,  and  she — why,  didn't  she  understand?  She 
knew  I  would  have  carried  the  old  horse  on  my  back  clear 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  123 

to  town,  if  she'd  let  me,  just  to  hear  her  laugh  once. 
Father,"  the  son's  voice  was  bitter  as  he  spoke,  "why  didn't 
she  understand — why  did  she  side  with  him  ? ' ' 

The  father  smiled.  "Perhaps,  on  your  wedding  trip, 
Grant,  your  wife  will  agree  with  you  too,  son." 

As  they  rode  home  in  silence,  the  young  man  asked  him 
self  over  and  over  again,  what  lines  divided  the  world  into 
classes ;  why  manual  toil  shuts  off  the  toilers  from  those  who 
serve  the  world  otherwise.  Youth  is  sensitive;  often  it  is 
supersensitive,  and  Grant  Adams  saw  or  thought  he  saw  in 
the  little  byplay  of  Tom  Van  Dorn  the  caste  prod  of  society 
jabbing  labor  back  into  its  place. 

"Tom,"  said  the  bride  as  they  watched  Grant  Adams  un 
hitch  the  horse  by  the  lumber  yard,  "why  did  you  force  that 
money  on  Grant — he  would  have  much  preferred  to  have 
your  hand  when  he  said  good-by." 

"He's  not  my  kind  of  folks,  Laura,"  replied  Van  Dorn. 
"I  know  you  like  him.  But  that  five  will  do  him  lots  more 
good  than  my  shaking  his  hand,  and  if  that  youth  wasn't 
as  proud  as  Lucifer  he'd  rather  have  five  dollars  than  any 
man's  hand.  I  would — if  it  comes  to  that." 

"But,  Tom,"  answered  the  girl,  "that  wasn't  pride,  that 
was  self-respect." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  squeezed  her  gloved  hand  and  in 
the  darkness  put  his  arm  about  her,  "let's  not  worry 
about  him.  All  I  know  is  that  I  wanted  to  square  it  with 
him  for  taking  care  of  the  horse  and  five  dollars  won't  hurt 
his  self-respect.  And,"  said  the  bridegroom  as  he  pressed 
the  bride  very  close  to  his  heart,  "what  is  it  to  us?  We 
have  each  other,  so  what  do  we  care — what  is  all  the  world 
to  us?" 

As  the  midnight  train  whistled  out  of  South  Harvey 
Grant  Adams  sitting  on  a  bedside  was  fondly  unbuttoning 
a  small  body  from  its  clothes,  ready  to  hear  a  sleepy  child's 
voice  say  its  evening  prayers.  In  his  heart  there  flamed  the 
love  for  the  child  that  was  beckoning  him  into  love  for  every 
sentient  thing.  And  as  Laura  Van  Dorn,  bride  of  Thomas 
of  that  name,  heard  the  whistle,  her  being  was  flooded  with 
a  love  high  and  marvelous,  washing  in  from  the  infinite  love 
that  moves  the  universe  and  carrying  her  soul  in  aspiring 


124  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

thrills  of  joy  out  to  ride  upon  the  mysterious  currents  that 
we  know  are  not  of  ourselves,  and  so  have  called  divine. 

In  the  morning,  in  the  early  gray  of  morning,  when 
Grant  Adams  rose  to  make  the  fire  for  breakfast,  he  found 
his  father,  sitting  by  the  kitchen  table,  half  clad  as  he  had 
risen  from  a  restless  bed.  Scrawled  sheets  of  white  paper 
lay  around  him  on  the  floor  and  the  table.  He  said  sadly: 

"She  can't  come,  Grant — she  can't  come.  I  dreamed  of 
her  last  night;  it  was  all  so  real — just  as  she  was  when  we 
were  young,  and  I  thought — I  was  sure  she  was  near."  He 
sighed  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "But  they've  looked 
for  her — all  of  them  have  looked  for  her.  She  knows  I'm 
calling — but  she  can't  come."  The  father  fumbled  the 
papers,  rubbed  his  gray  beard,  and  shut  his  fine  eyes  as 
he  shook  his  head,  and  whispered:  "What  holds  her — 
what  keeps  her  ?  They  all  come  but  her. ' ' 

"What's  this,  father?"  asked  Grant,  as  a  page  closely 
written  in  a  fine  hand  fluttered  to  the  floor. 

"Oh,  nothing — much — just  Mr.  Left  bringing  me  some 
message  from  Victor  Hugo.  It  isn't  much." 

But  the  Eminent  Authority  who  put  it  into  the  Proceed 
ings  of  the  Psychological  Society  laid  more  store  by  it  than 
he  did  by  the  scraps  and  incoherent  bits  of  jargon  which 
pictured  the  old  man's  lonely  grief.  They  are  not  pre 
served  for  us,  but  in  the  Proceedings,  on  page  1125,  we  have 
this  from  Mr.  Left : 

"The  vice  of  the  poor  is  crass  and  palpable.  It  carries  a 
quick  and  deadly  corrective  poison.  But  the  vices  of  the 
well-to-do  are  none  the  less  deadly.  To  dine  in  comfort  and 
know  your  brother  is  starving;  to  sleep  in  peace  and  know 
that  he  is  wronged  and  oppressed  by  laws  that  we  sanction,  to 
gather  one's  family  in  contentment  around  a  hearth,  while 
the  poor  dwell  in  a  habitat  of  vice  that  kills  their  souls,  to  live 
without  bleeding  hearts  for  the  wrong  on  this  earth — that  is 
the  vice  of  the  well-to-do.  And  so  it  shall  come  to  pass  that 
when  the  day  of  reckoning  appears  it  shall  be  a  day  of 
wrath.  For  when  God  gives  the  poor  the  strength  to  rise 
(and  they  are  waxing  stronger  every  hour),  they  will  meet 
not  a  brother's  hand  but  a  glutton's — the  hard,  dead  hand 
of  a  hard,  dead  soul.  Then  will  the  vicious  poor  and  the 


LOVE  IS  THE  LEVER  125 

vicious  well-to-do,  each  crippled  by  his  own  vices,  the  blind 
leading  the  blind,  fall  to  in  a  merciless  conflict,  mad  and 
meaningless,  born  of  a  sad,  unnecessary  hate  that  shall  ter 
rorize  the  earth,  unless  God  sends  us  another  miracle  of  love 
like  Christ  or  some  vast  chastening  scourge  of  war,  to  turn 
aside  the  fateful  blow." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN   WHICH   WE   OBSERVE   THE   INTERIOR   OF   A   DESERTED    HOUSE 

AN  empty,  lonely  house  was  that  on  Quality  Hill  in 
Elm  Street  after  the  daughter's  marriage.  It  was 
not  that  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  did  not  see  their 
daughter  often ;  but  whether  she  came  every  day  or  twice  a 
week  or  every  week,  always  she  came  as  a  visitor.  No  one 
may  have  two  homes.  And  the  daughter  of  the  house  of 
Nesbit  had  her  own  home — a  home  wherein  she  was  striving 
to  bind  her  husband  to  a  domesticity  which  in  itself  did  not 
interest  him.  But  with  her  added  charm  to  it,  she  believed 
that  she  could  lure  him  into  an  acceptance  of  her  ideal  of 
marriage.  So  with  all  her  powers  she  fell  to  her  task.  Con 
sciously  or  unconsciously,  directly  or  by  indirection,  but 
always  with  the  joy  of  adventure  in  her  heart,  whether  with 
books  or  with  music  or  with  comradeship,  she  was  bending 
herself  to  the  business  of  wifehood,  so  that  her  own  home 
filled  her  life  and  the  Nesbit  home  was  lonely ;  so  lonely  was 
it  that  by  way  of  solace  and  diversion,  Mrs.  Nesbit  had  all 
the  woodwork  downstairs  "done  over"  in  quarter-sawed  oak 
with  elaborate  carvings.  Ferocious  gargoyles,  highly  excited 
dolphins,  improper,  pot-bellied  little  cupids,  and  mermaids 
without  a  shred  of  character,  seemed  about  to  pounce  out 
from  banister,  alcove,  bookcase,  cozy  corner  and  china  closet. 
George  Brotherton  pretended  to  find  resemblances  in  the 
effigies  to  people  about  Harvey,  and  to  the  town's  echoing 
delight  he  began  to  name  the  figures  after  their  friends,  and 
always  saluted  the  figures  intimately,  as  Maggie,  or  Henry, 
or  the  Captain,  or  John  Kollander,  or  Lady  Herdicker. 
But  through  the  wooden  menagerie  in  the  big  house  the 
Doctor  whistled  and  hummed  and  smoked  and  chirruped 
more  or  less  drearily.  To  him  the  Japanese  screens,  the 
huge  blue  vases,  the  ponderous  high-backed  chairs  crawly 

126 


INTERIOR  OF  A  DESERTED  HOUSE          127 

with  meaningless  carvings,  the  mantels  full  of  jars  and  pots 
and  statuettes,  brought  no  comfort.  He  was  forever  putting 
his  cane  over  his  arm  and  clicking  down  the  street  to  the 
Van  Dorn  home;  but  he  felt  in  spite  of  all  his  daughter's 
efforts  to  welcome  him — and  perhaps  because  of  them — that 
he  was  a  stranger  there.  So  slowly  and  rather  impercep 
tibly  to  him,  certainly  without  any  conscious  desire  for  it, 
a  fondness  for  Kenyon  Adams  sprang  up  in  the  Doctor's 
heart.  For  it  was  exceedingly  soft  in  spots  and  those  spots 
were  near  his  home.  He  was  domestic  and  he  was  fond  of 
home  joys.  So  when  Mrs.  Nesbit  put  aside  the  encyclo 
pedia,  from  which  she  was  getting  the  awful  truth  about 
Babylonian  Art  for  her  paper  to  be  read  before  the 
Shakespeare  Club,  and  going  to  the  piano,  brought  from 
the  bottom  of  a  pile  of  yellow  music  a  tattered  sheet,  played 
a  Chopin  nocturne  in  a  rolling  and  rather  grand  style  that 
young  women  affected  before  the  Civil  War,  the  Doctor's  joy 
was  scarcely  less  keen  than  the  child's.  Then  came  rare 
occasions  when  Laura,  being  there  for  the  night  while  her 
husband  was  away  on  business,  would  play  melodies  that 
cut  the  child's  heart  to  the  quick  and  brought  tears  of  joy 
to  his  big  eyes.  It  seemed  to  him  at  those  times  as  if  Heaven 
itself  were  opened  for  him,  and  for  days  the  melodies  she 
played  would  come  ringing  through  his  heart.  Often  he 
would  sit  absorbed  at  the  piano  when  he  should  have  been 
practicing  his  lesson,  picking  out  those  melodies  and  trying 
with  a  poignant  yearning  for  perfection  to  find  their  proper 
harmonies.  But  at  such  times  after  he  had  frittered  away 
a  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Nesbit  would  call  down  to  him,  "You, 
Kenyon,"  and  he  would  sigh  and  take  up  his  scales  and 
runs  and  arpeggios. 

Kenyon  was  developing  into  a  shy,  lovely  child  of  few 
noises;  he  seemed  to  love  to  listen  to  every  continuous 
sound — a  creaking  gate,  a  waterdrip  from  the  eaves,  a  whis 
tling  wind — a  humming  wire.  Sometimes  the  Doctor  would 
watch  Kenyon  long  minutes,  as  the  child  listened  to  the  fire 's 
low  murmur  in  the  grate,  and  would  wonder  what  the  little 
fellow  made  of  it  all.  But  above  everything  else  about  the 
child  the  Doctor  was  interested  in  watching  his  eyes  develop 
into  the  great,  liquid,  soulful  orbs  that  marked  his  mother. 


128  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

To  the  Doctor  the  resemblance  was  rather  weird.  But  he 
could  see  no  other  point  in  the  child's  body  or  mind  or  soul 
whereon  Margaret  Miiller  had  left  a  token.  The  Doctor 
liked  to  discuss  Kenyon  with  his  wife  from  the  standpoint 
of  ancestry.  He  took  a  sort  of  fiendish  delight — if  one  may 
imagine  a  fiend  with  a  seraphic  face  and  dancing  blue  eyes 
and  a  mouth  that  loved  to  pucker  in  a  pensive  whistle — 
in  Mrs.  Nesbit's  never  failing  stumble  over  the  child's 
eyes. 

Any  evening  he  would  lay  aside  his  Browning — even  in  a 
knotty  passage  wherein  the  Doctor  was  wont  to  take  much 
pleasure,  and  revert  to  type  thus : 

'  *  Yes,  I  guess  there 's  something  in  blood  as  you  say !  The 
child  shows  it!  But  where  do  you  suppose  he  gets  those 
eyes?'7  His  wife  would  answer  energetically,  ''They  aren't 
like  Amos's  and  they  certainly  are  not  much  like  Mary's! 
Yet  those  eyes  show  that  somewhere  in  the  line  there  was 
fine  blood  and  high  breeding/' 

And  the  Doctor,  remembering  the  kraut-peddling  Miiller, 
who  used  to  live  back  in  Indiana,  and  who  was  Kenyon 's 
great-grandfather,  would  shake  a  wise  head  and  answer: 

"Them  eyes  is  certainly  a  throw-back  to  the  angel  choir, 
my  dear — a  sure  and  certain  throw-back!" 

And  while  Mrs.  Nesbit  was  climbing  the  Sands  family  tree, 
from  Mary  Adams  back  to  certain  Irish  Sandses  of  the  late 
eighteenth  century,  the  Doctor  would  flit  back  to  "Paracel 
sus,"  to  be  awakened  from  its  spell  by:  "Only  the  Irish 
have  such  eyes !  They  are  the  mark  of  the  Celt  all  over  the 
world !  But  it 's  curious  that  neither  Mary  nor  Daniel  had 
those  eyes!" 

"It's  certainly  curious  like,"  squeaked  the  Doctor  ami 
cably — "certainly  curious  like,  as  the  treetoad  said  when  he 
couldn't  holler  up  a  rain.  But  it  only  proves  that  blood 
always  tells!  Bedelia,  there's  really  nothing  so  true  in  this 
world  as  blood  ! ' ' 

And  Mrs.  Nesbit  would  ask  him  a  moment  later  what  he 
could  find  so  amusing  in  "Paracelsus"?  She  certainly 
never  had  found  anything  but  headaches  in  it. 

Yet  there  came  a  time  when  the  pudgy  little  stomach  of 
the  Doctor  did  not  shake  in  merriment.  For  he  also  had  his 


INTERIOR  OF  A  DESERTED  HOUSE         129 

problem  of  blood  to  solve.  Tom  Van  Dorn  was,  after  all, 
the  famous  Van  Dorn  baby ! 

One  evening  in  the  late  winter  as  the  Doctor  was  trudging 
home  from  a  belated  call,  he  saw  the  light  in  Brothertoii 's 
window  marking  a  yellow  bar  across  the  dark  street.  As  he 
stepped  in  for  a  word  with  Mr.  Brothertoii  about  the  coming 
spring  city  election,  he  saw  quickly  that  the  laugh  was  in 
some  way  on  Tom  Van  Dorn,  who  rose  rather  guiltily  and 
hurried  out  of  the  shop. 

"Seegars  on  George!"  exclaimed  Captain  Morton;  then 
answered  the  Doctor's  gay,  inquiring  stare:  " Henry  bet 
George  a  box  of  Perfectos  Tom  wouldn't  be  a  year  from  his 
wedding  asking  'what's  her  name'  when  the  boys  were  dis 
cussing  some  girl  or  other,  and  they've  laid  for  Tom  ever 
since  and  got  him  to-night,  eh  ? " 

The  Captain  laughed,  and  then  remembering  the  Doc 
tor's  relationship  with  the  Van  Dorns,  colored  and  tried  to 
cover  his  blunder  with:  "Just  boys,  you  know,  Doc — just 
their  way." 

The  Doctor  grinned  and  piped  back,  "Oh,  yes — yes — 
Cap — I  know,  boys  will  be  dogs!" 

Toddling  home  that  night  the  Doctor  passed  the  Van 
Dorn  house.  He  saw  through  the  window  the  young  couple 
in  their  living-room.  The  doctor  had  a  feeling  that  he  could 
sense  the  emotions  of  his  daughter's  heart.  It  was  as  though 
he  could  see  her  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  steel  grippers 
of  her  soul  into  the  heart  arid  life  of  the  man  she  loved. 
Over  and  over  the  father  asked  himself  if  in  Torn  Van 
Dorn's  heart  was  any  essential  loyalty  upon  which  the  hooks 
and  bonds  of  the  friendship  and  fellowship  of  a  home  could 
fasten  and  hold.  The  father  could  see  the  handsome  young 
face  of  Van  Dorn  in  the  gas  light,  aflame  with  the  joy  of  her 
presence,  but  Dr.  Nesbit  realized  that  it  was  a  passing  flame 
— that  in  the  core  of  the  husband  was  nothing  to  which  a 
wife  might  anchor  her  life;  and  as  the  Doctor  clicked  his 
cane  on  the  sidewalk  vigorously  he  whispered  to  himself: 
"Peth — peth — nothing  in  his  heart  but  peth." 

A  day  came  when  the  parents  stood  watching  their  daugh 
ter  as  she  went  down  the  street  through  the  dusk,  after  she 
had  kissed  them  both  and  told  them,  and  after  they  had  all 


130  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

said  they  were  very  happy  over  it.  But  when  she  was  out 
of  sight  the  hands  of  the  parents  met  and  the  Doctor  saw 
fear  in  Bedelia  Nesbit's  face  for  the  first  time.  But  neither 
spoke  of  the  fear.  It  took  its  place  by  the  vague  uneasiness 
in  their  hearts,  and  two  spectral  sentinels  stood  guard  over 
their  speech. 

Thus  their  talk  came  to  be  of  those  things  which  lay  re 
mote  from  their  hearts.  It  was  Mrs.  Nesbit's  habit  to  read 
the  paper  and  repeat  the  news  to  the  Doctor,  who  sat  beside 
her  with  a  book.  He  jabbed  in  comments;  she  ignored 
them.  Thus:  "I  see  Grant  Adams  has  been  made  head 
carpenter  for  all  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Companies  mines  and 
properties."  To  which  the  Doctor  replied:  "Grant,  my 
dear,  is  an  unusual  young  man.  He'll  have  ten  regular  men 
under  him — and  I  claim  that's  fine  for  a  boy  in  his  twen 
ties — with  no  better  show  in  life  than  Grant  has  had."  But 
Mrs.  Nesbit  had  in  general  a  low  opinion  of  the  Doctor's  esti 
mates  of  men.  She  held  that  no  man  who  came  from  Indiana 
and  was  fooled  by  men  who  wore  cotton  in  their  ears  and 
were  addicted  to  chilblains,  could  be  trusted  in  appraising 
humanity. 

So  she  answered,  "Yes,"  dryly.  It  was  her  custom  when 
he  began  to  bestow  knighthood  upon  common  clay  to  divert 
him  with  some  new  and  irrelevant  subject.  "Here's  an  item 
in  the  Times  this  morning  I  fancy  you  didn't  read.  After 
describing  the  bride's  dress  and  her  beauty,  it  says,  'And 
the  bride  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  H.  M.  Von  Miiller,  who 
was  an  exile  from  his  native  land  and  gave  up  a  large  estate 
and  a  title  because  of  his  participation  in  the  revolution  of 
'48.  Miss  Miiller  might  properly  be  called  the  Countess 
Von  Miiller,  if  she  chose  to  claim  her  rightful  title!' — what 
is  there  to  that?" 

The  Doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  chuckled : 

"Pennsylvania  Dutch  for  three  generations — I  knew  old 
Herman  Miiller 's  father — before  I  came  West — when  he  used 
to  sell  kraut  and  cheese  around  Vincennes  before  the  war, 
and  Herman's  grandfather  came  from  Pennsylvania." 

"I  thought  so,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Nesbit.  And  then  she 
added:  "Doctor,  that  girl  is  a  minx." 

* '  Yes,  my  dear, ' '  chirped  the  Doctor.     ' '  Yes,  she 's  a  minx ; 


INTERIOR  OF  A  DESERTED  HOUSE          131 

but  this  isn't  the  open  season  for  minxes,  so  we  must  let  her 
go.  And,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  read 
the  wedding  notice  carefully,  "she  may  put  a  brace  under 
Henry — the  blessed  Lord  knows  Henry  will  need  something, 
though  he's  done  mighty  well  for  a  year — only  twice  in 
eighteen  months.  Poor  fellow — poor  fellow!"  mused  the 
Doctor.  Mrs.  Nesbit  blinked  at  her  husband  for  a  minute 
in  sputtering  indignation.  Then  she  exclaimed:  "Brace 
under  Henry!"  And  to  make  it  more  emphatic,  repeated 
it  and  then  exploded:  "The  cat's  foot — brace  for  Henry, 
indeed — that  piece!" 

And  Mrs.  Nesbit  stalked  out  of  the  room,  brought  back  a 
little  dress — a  very  minute  dress — she  was  making  and  sat 
rocking  almost  imperceptibly  while  her  husband  read. 
Finally,  after  a  calming  interval,  she  said  in  a  more  amiable 
tone,  "Doctor  Nesbit,  if  you've  cut  up  all  the  women  you 
claim  to  have  dissected  in  medical  school,  you  know  precious 
little  about  what's  in  them,  if  you  get  fooled  in  that  Mar 
garet  woman." 

"The  only  kind  we  ever  cut  up,"  returned  the  Doctor 
in  a  mild,  conciliatory  treble,  "were  perfect — all  Satter- 
thwaites." 

And  when  the  Doctor  fell  back  to  his  book,  Mrs.  Nesbit 
spent  some  time  reflecting  upon  the  virtues  of  her  liege  lord 
and  wondering  how  such  a  paragon  ever  came  from  so  com 
mon  a  State  as  Indiana,  where  so  far  as  any  one  ever  knew 
there  was  never  a  family  in  the  whole  commonwealth,  and 
the  entire  population  as  she  understood  it  carried  potatoes 
in  their  pockets  to  keep  away  rheumatism. 

The  evening  wore  away  and  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  were 
alone  by  the  ashes  in  the  smoldering  fire  in  the  grate. 
They  were  about  to  go  up  stairs  when  the  Doctor,  who  had 
been  looking  absent-mindedly  into  the  embers,  began  medi 
tating  aloud  about  local  politics  while  his  wife  sewed.  His 
meditation  concerned  a  certain  trade  between  the  city  and 
Daniel  Sands  wherein  the  city  parted  with  its  stock  in 
Sands 's  public  utilities  with  a  face  value  of  something  like 
a  million  dollars.  The  stocks  were  to  go  to  Mr.  Sands,  while 
the  city  received  therefor  a  ten-acre  tract  east  of  town  on 
the  Wahoo,  called  Sands  Park.  After  bursting  into  the 


132  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Doctor's  political  nocturne  rather  suddenly  and  violently 
with  her  feminine  disapproval,  Mrs.  Nesbit  sat  rocking,  and 
finally  she  exclaimed:  "Good  Lord,  Jim  Nesbit,  I  wish  I 
was  a  man." 

"I've  long  suspected  it,  my  dear,"  piped  her  husband. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that — not  your  politics,"  retorted  Mrs.  Nes 
bit,  "though  that  made  me  think  of  it.  Do  you  know  what 
else  old  Dan  Sands  is  doing?" 

The  Doctor  bent  over  the  fire,  stirred  it  up  and  replied, 
"Well,  not  in  particular." 

"Philandering,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Nesbit. 

"Again?"  returned  the  Doctor. 

"No,"  snapped  Mrs.  Nesbit— "as  usual!" 

The  Doctor  had  no  opinion  to  express;  one  of  the  family 
specters  was  engaging  his  attention  at  the  moment.  Pres 
ently  his  wife  put  down  her  paper  and  sat  as  one  wrestling 
with  an  impulse.  The  specter  on  her  side  of  the  hearth  was 
trying  to  keep  her  lips  sealed.  They  sat  while  the  mantel 
clock  ticked  off  five  minutes. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  the  Doctor  asked. 

"I'm  thinking  of  Dan  Sands,"  replied  the  wife  with  some 
emotion  in  her  voice. 

The  foot  tap  of  Mrs.  Nesbit  became  audible.  She  shook 
her  head  with  some  force  and  exclaimed :  "0  Jim,  wouldn't 
I  like  to  have  that  man — just  for  one  day." 

"I've  noticed,"  cut  in  the  Doctor,  "regarding  such  propo 
sitions  from  the  gentler  sex,  that  the  Lord  generally  tem 
pers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

"The  shorn  lamb — the  shorn  lamb,"  retorted  Mrs.  Nesbit. 
"The  shorn  tom-cat!  I'd  like  to  shear  him."  Wherewith 
she  rose  and  putting  out  the  light  led  the  Doctor  to  the 
stairs. 

Both  knew  that  the  spectral  sentinels  had  used  Daniel 
Sands  and  his  amours  only  as  a  seal  upon  their  lips. 

The  parents  could  speak  in  parables  about  what  they 
felt  or  fancied  because  there  was  so  little  that  was  tangible 
and  substantial  for  them  to  see.  Of  all  the  institutions  man 
has  made — the  state,  the  church,  his  commerce,  his  schools, — 
the  home  is  by  far  the  most  spiritual.  Its  successes  and  its 
failures  are  never  material.  They  are  never  evidenced  in  any 


INTERIOR  OP  A  DESERTED  HOUSE          133 

sort  of  worldly  goods.  Only  in  the  hearts  of  those  who 
dwell  in  a  home,  or  of  those  to  whom  it  is  dear,  do  its  tri 
umphs  and  its  defeats  register  themselves.  But  in  Tom  Van 
Dorn's  philosophy  of  life  small  space  was  left  for  things 
of  the  spirit  alone,  to  register.  He  was  trying  with  all  his 
might  to  build  a  home  upon  material  things.  So  above  all 
he  built  his  home  around  a  beautiful  woman.  Then  he  lav 
ished  upon  her  and  about  the  house  wherein  she  dwelled, 
beautiful  objects.  He  was  proud  of  their  cost.  Their  value 
in  dollars  and  cents  gave  these  objects  their  chief  value  in 
his  balance  sheet  of  gain  or  less  in  footing  up  his  account 
with  his  home.  And  because  what  he  had  was  expensive,  he 
prized  it.  Possibly  because  he  had  bought  his  wife's  devo 
tion,  at  some  material  sacrifice  to  his  own  natural  inclina 
tions  toward  the  feminine  world,  he  listed  her  high  in  the 
assets  of  the  home ;  and  so  in  the  only  way  he  could  love,  he 
loved  her  jealously.  She  and  the  rugs  and  pictures  and  fur 
niture — all  were  dear  to  him,  as  chattels  which  he  had 
bought  and  paid  for  and  could  brag  about.  And  because  he 
was  too  well  bred  to  brag,  the  repression  of  that  natural 
instinct  he  added  to  the  cost  of  the  items  listed, — rugs,  pic 
tures,  wife,  furniture,  house,  trees,  lot,  and  blue  grass  lawn. 
So  when  toward  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  his  marriage,  he 
found  that  actually  he  could  turn  his  head  and  follow  with 
his  eyes  a  pretty  petticoat  going  down  Market  Street,  and 
still  fool  his  wife;  when  he  found  he  could  pry  open  the 
eyes  of  Miss  Mauling  at  the  office  again  with  his  old  ogle, 
and  still  have  the  beautiful  love  which  he  had  bought  with 
self-denial,  its  value  dropped. 

And  his  wife,  who  felt  in  her  soul  her  value  passing  in 
the  heart  she  loved,  strove  to  find  her  fault  and  to  correct  it. 
Daily  her  devotion  manifested  itself  more  plainly.  Daily 
she  lived  more  singly  to  the  purpose  of  her  soul.  And  daily 
she  saw  that  purpose  becoming  a  vain  pursuit. 

Outwardly  the  home  was  unchanged  as  this  tragedy  was 
played  within  the  two  hearts.  The  same  scenery  surrounded 
the  players.  The  same  voices  spoke,  in  the  same  tones,  the 
same  words  of  endearment,  and  the  same  hours  brought  the 
same  routine  as  the  days  passed.  Yet  the  home  was  slowly 
sinking  into  failure.  And  the  specters  that  sealed  the  lips 


134  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

of  the  parents  who  stood  by  and  mutely  watehed  the  inner 
drama  unfold,  watched  it  unfold  and  translate  itself  into 
life  without  words,  without  deeds,  without  superficial  tremor 
or  flinching  of  any  kind — the  specters  passed  the  sad  story 
from  heart  to  heart  in  those  mysterious  silences  wherein 
souls  in  this  world  learn  their  surest  truths. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  WHICH   OUR  HERO   STROLLS  OUT   WITH   THE   DEVIL   TO   LOOK 
AT   THE   HIGH   MOUNTAIN 

THE  soup  had  come  and  gone;  great  platters  of  fried 
chicken  had  disappeared,  with  incidental  spinach  and 
new  peas  and  potatoes,  A  bowl  of  lettuce  splashed 
with  a  French  dressing  had  been  mowed  down  as  the  grass, 
and  the  goodly  company  was  surveying  something  less  than 
an  acre  of  strawberry  shortcake  at  the  close  of  a  rather 
hilarious  dinner — a  spring  dinner,  to  be  exact.  Rhoda  Kol- 
lander  was  reciting  with  enthusiasm  an  elaborate  and  impos 
sible  travesty  of  a  recipe  for  strawberry  shortcake,  which 
she  had  read  somewhere,  when  the  Doctor,  in  his  nankeens, 
putting  his  hands  on  the  table  cloth  as  one  who  was  about 
to  deliver  an  oracle,  ran  his  merry  eyes  down  the  table, 
gathering  up  the  Adamses  and  Mortons  and  Mayor  Brother- 
ton  and  Morty  Sands;  fastened  his  glance  upon  the  Van 
Dorns  and  cut  in  on  the  interminable  shortcake  recipe  rather 
ruthlessly  thus  in  his  gay  falsetto : 

''Torn,  here — thinks  he's  pretty  smart.  And  George 
Brotherton,  Mayor  of  all  the  Harveys,  thinks  he  is  a  pretty 
smooth  article ;  and  the  Honorable  Lady  Satterthwaite  here, 
she's  got  a  Maryland  notion  that  she  has  second  sight  into 
the  doings  of  her  prince  consort."  He  chuckled  and  grinned 
as  he  beamed  at  his  daughter:  "And  there  is  the  princess 
imperial — she  thinks  she's  mighty  knolledgeous  about  her 
father — but,"  he  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  enjoying  the 
suspense  he  was  creating  as  he  paused,  drawling  his  words, 
"I'm  just  going  to  show  you  how  I've  got  'em  all  fooled." 
He  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  long,  official  envelope,  pulled 
from  the  envelope  an  official  document,  and  also  a  letter. 
He  laid  the  official  document  down  before  him  and  opened 
the  letter. 

135 


136  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Kind  o'  seems  to  be  signed  by  the  Governor  of  the 
State,"  he  drolled:  "And  seems  like  the  more  I  look  at  it 
the  surer  I  am  it's  addressed  to  Tom  Van  Dorn.  I'm  not 
much  of  an  elocutionist  and  never  could  read  at  sight,  having 
come  from  Eendiany,  and  I  guess  Rhody  here,  she's  kind  of 
elocutionary  and  I'll  jest  about  ask  her  to  read  it  to  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen!"  He  handed  Mrs.  Kollander  the  let 
ter  and  passed  the  sealed  document  to  his  son-in-law. 

Mrs.  Kollander  read  aloud : 

"I  take  pleasure  in  handing  you  through  the  kindness  of 
Senator  James  Nesbit  your  appointment  to  fill  the  vacancy 
in  your  judicial  district  created  to-day  by  the  resignation  of 
Judge  Arbuckle  of  your  district  to  fill  a  vacancy  in  the 
Supreme  Court  of  this  State  created  there  by  the  resigna 
tion  of  Justice  Worrell." 

Looking  over  his  wife's  shoulder  and  seeing  the  signifi 
cance  of  the  letter,  John  Kollander  threw  back  his  head  and 
began  singing  in  his  roaring  voice,  "For  we'll  rally  round 
the  flag,  boys,  we'll  rally  once  again,  shouting  the  battle  cry 
of  freedom,"  and  the  company  at  the  table  clapped  its 
hands.  And  while  George  Brotherton  was  bellowing,  '  *  Well 
— say!"  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  kissed  his  wife  and 
beamed  his  satisfaction  upon  the  company. 

When  the  commotion  had  subsided  the  chuckling  little 
man,  all  a-beam  with  happiness,  his  pink,  smooth  face  shin 
ing  like  a  headlight,  explained  thus : 

"I  jest  thought  these  Maryland  Satterthwaites  and  Sche- 
nectady  Van  Doras  was  a-gittin'  too  top-lofty,  and  I'd  have 
to  register  one  for  the  Grand  Duke  of  Griggsby's  Station,  to 
sort  of  put  'em  in  their  place!"  He  was  happy;  and  his 
vernacular,  which  always  was  his  pose  under  emotional 
stress,  was  broad,  as  he  went  on :  "  So  I  says  to  myself,  the 
Corn  Belt  Railroad  is  mighty  keen  for  a  Supreme  Court 
decision  in  the  Missouri  River  rate  case,  and  I  says,  Wor 
rell  J.,  he's  the  boy  to  write  it,  but  I  says  to  the  Corn  Belt 
folks,  says  I,  '  It  would  shatter  the  respect  of  the  people  for 
their  courts  if  Worrell  J.  should  stay  on  the  bench  after 
writing  the  kind  of  a  decision  you  want,  so  we'll  just  put 
him  in  your  law  offices  at  twelve  thousand  per,  which  is 
three  times  what  he  is  getting  now,  and  then  one  idear 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  137 

brought  on  another  and  here's  Tom's  commission  and  three 
men  and  a  railroad  all  made  happy!"  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  silently  as  he  finished,  "and  all  the  jus 
tices  concurring!"  After  the  hubbub  of  congratulations 
had  passed  and  the  guests  had  moved  into  the  parlor  of  the 
Nesbit  home,  the  little  Doctor,  standing  among  them,  regaled 
himself  thus: 

"Politics  is  jobs.  Jobs  is  friends.  Friends  is  politics. 
The  reason  why  the  reformers  don't  get  anywhere  is  that 
they  have  no  friends  in  politics.  They  regard  the  people  as 
sticky  and  smelly  and  low.  Bedelia  has  that  notion.  But 
I  love  'em !  Love  'em  arid  vote  'em ! ' ' 

Amos  Adams  opened  his  mouth  to  protest,  but  the  Doctor 
waved  him  into  silence.  "I  know  your  idear,  Amos!  But 
when  the  folks  get  tired  of  politics  that  is  jobs  and  want 
politics  that  is  principles,  I'll  open  as  fine  a  line  of  prin 
ciples  as  ever  was  shown  in  this  market ! ' ' 

After  the  company  had  gone,  Mrs.  Nesbit  faced  her  hus 
band  with  a  peremptory:  "Well — will  you  tell  me  why, 
Jim  Nesbit?"  And  he  sighed  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"To  save  his  self-respect!  Self-respect  grows  on  what 
it  feeds  on,  my  dear,  and  I  thought  maybe  if  he  was  a 
judge" — he  looked  into  the  anxious  eyes  of  his  wife  and 
went  on — "that  might  hold  him!"  He  rested  his  head  on 
a  hand  and  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  "  'Vanity,  vanity,' 
saith  the  Preacher—'  all  is  vanity ! '  And  I  thought  I  'd  hitch 
it  to  something  that  might  pull  him  out  of  the  swamp! 
And  I  happened  to  know  that  he  had  a  sneaking  notion  of 
running  for  Judge  this  fall,  so  I  thought  I'd  slip  up  and 
help  him." 

He  sighed  again  and  his  tone  changed.  "I  did  it  pri 
marily  for  Laura,"  he  said  wearily,  and:  "Mother,  we 
might  as  well  face  it." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  looked  intently  at  her  husband  in  understand 
ing  silence  and  asked :  "  Is  it  any  one  in  particular,  Jim — " 

He  hesitated,  then  exclaimed :  ' '  Oh,  I  may  be  wrong,  but 
somehow  I  don't  like  the  air— the  way  that  Mauling  girl 
assumes  authority  at  the  office.  Why,  she's  made  me  wait 
in  the  outer  office  twice  now — for  nothing  except  to  show 
that  she  could!" 


138  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Yes,  Jim — but  what  good  will  this  judgeship  do?  How 
will  it  solve  anything?"  persisted  the  wife.  The  Doctor  let 
his  sigh  precede  his  words :  ' '  The  office  will  make  him  real 
ize  that  the  eyes  of  the  community  are  on  him,  that  he  is  in 
a  way  a  marked  man.  And  then  the  place  will  keep  him 
busy  and  spur  on  his  ambition.  And  these  things  should 
help." 

He  looked  tenderly  into  the  worried  face  of  his  wife  and 
smiled.  "Perhaps  we're  both  wrong.  We  don't  know. 
Tom's  young  and — "  He  ended  the  sentence  in  a  "Ho — 
ho — ho — hum!"  and  yawned  and  rose,  leading  the  way  up 
stairs. 

In  the  Van  Dorn  home  a  young  wife  was  trying  to  define 
herself  in  the  new  relation  to  the  community  in  which  the 
evening's  news  had  placed  her.  She  had  no  idea  of  divorcing 
the  judgeship  from  her  life.  She  felt  that  marriage  was  a 
full  partnership  and  that  the  judgeship  meant  much  to  her. 
She  realized  that  as  a  judge's  wife  her  life  and  her  duties — 
and  she  was  eager  always  to  acquire  new  duties — would  be 
different  from  her  life  and  her  duties  as  a  lawyer's  wife  or 
a  doctor's  wife  or  a  merchant's  wife,  for  example.  For 
Laura  Van  Dorn  was  in  the  wife  business  with  a  consuming 
ardor,  and  the  whole  universe  was  related  to  her  wifehood. 
To  her  marriage  was  the  development  of  a  two-phase  soul 
with  but  one  will.  As  the  young  couple  entered  their  home, 
the  wife  was  saying: 

"Tom,  isn't  it  fine  to  think  of  the  good  you  can  do — 
these  poor  folk  in  the  Valley  don't  really  get  justice.  And 
they're  your  friends.  They  always  help  you  and  father  in 
the  election,  and  now  you  can  see  that  they  have  their 
rights.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad — so  glad  father  did  it.  That  was 
his  way  to  show  them  how  he  really  loves  them." 

The  husband  smiled,  a  husbandly  and  superior  smile,  and 
said  absently,  "Oh,  well,  I  presume  they  don't  get  much 
out  of  the  courts,  but  they  should  learn  to  keep  away  from 
litigation.  It's  a  rich  man's  game  anyway!"  He  was 
thinking  of  the  steps  before  him  which  might  lead  him  to  a 
higher  court  and  still  higher.  His  ambition  vaulted  as  he 
spoke.  "Laura,  Father  Jim  wouldn't  mind  having  a  son- 
in-law  on  the  United  States  Supreme  Court,  and  I  believe 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  139 

we  can  work  together  and  make  it  in  twenty  years  more!" 

As  the  young  wife  saw  the  glow  of  ambition  in  his  fine, 
mobile  face  she  stifled  the  altruistic  yearnings,  which  she 
had  come  to  feel  made  her  husband  uncomfortable,  and 
joined  him  as  he  gazed  into  the  crystal  ball  of  the  future 
and  saw  its  glistening  chimera. 

Perhaps  the  preceding  dialogue  wherein  Dr.  James  Nes- 
bit,  his  wife,  his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law  have  spoken 
may  indicate  that  politics  as  the  Doctor  played  it  was  an 
exceedingly  personal  chess  game.  We  see  him  here  blithely 
taking  from  the  people  of  his  state,  their  rights  to  justice 
and  trading  those  rights  cheerfully  for  his  personal  happi 
ness  as  it  was  represented  in  the  possible  reformation  of  his 
daughter's  husband.  He  thought  it  would  work — this  curi 
ous  bartering  of  public  rights  for  private  ends.  He  could 
not  see  that  a  man  who  could  accept  a  judgeship  as  it  had 
come  to  Tom  Van  Dorn,  in  the  nature  of  things  could  not 
take  out  an  essential  self-respect  which  he  had  forfeited 
when  he  took  the  place.  The  Doctor  was  as  blind  as  Tom 
Van  Dorn,  as  blind  as  his  times.  Government  was  a  per 
sonal  matter  in  that  day;  public  place  was  a  personal  per 
quisite. 

As  for  the  reformation  of  Tom  Van  Dorn,  for  which  all 
this  juggling  with  sacred  things  was  done,  he  had  no  idea 
that  his  moral  regeneration  was  concerned  in  the  deal,  and 
never  in  all  the  years  of  his  service  did  the  vaguest  hint 
come  to  him  that  the  outrage  of  justice  had  been  accom 
plished  for  his  own  soul's  good. 

The  next  morning  Tom  Van  Dorn  read  of  his  appoint 
ment  as  Judge  in  the  morning  papers,  and  he  pranced  twice 
the  length  of  Market  Street,  up  one  side  and  down  the 
other,  to  let  the  populace  congratulate  him.  Then  with  a 
fat  box  of  candy  he  went  to  his  office,  where  he  gave  the 
candy  and  certain  other  tokens  of  esteem  to  Miss  Mauling, 
and  at  noon  after  the  partnership  of  Calvin  &  Van  Dorn 
had  been  dissolved,  with  the  understanding  that  the  young 
Judge  was  to  keep  his  law  books  in  Calvin's  office,  and  was 
to  have  a  private  office  there — for  certain  intangible  con 
siderations.  Then  after  the  business  with  Joseph  Calvin  was 
concluded,  the  young  Judge  in  his  private  office  with  his 


140  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

hands  under  his  coat-tails  preened  before  Miss  Mauling  and 
talked  from  a  shameless  soul  of  his  greed  for  power!  The 
girl  before  him  gave  him  what  he  could  not  get  at  home,  an 
abject  adoration,  uncritical,  unabashed,  unrestrained. 

The  young  man  whom  the  newly  qualified  Judge  had  in 
herited  as  court  stenographer  was  a  sadly  unemotional, 
rather  methodical,  old  maid  of  a  person,  and  Tom  Van 
Dorn  could  not  open  his  soul  to  this  youth,  so  he  was  wont 
to  stray  back  to  the  offices  of  Joseph  Calvin  to  dictate  his 
instructions  to  juries,  and  to  look  over  the  books  in  his  own 
library  in  making  up  his  decisions.  The  office  came  to  be 
known  as  the  Judge's  Chambers  and  the  town  cocked  a  gay 
and  suspicious  eye  at  the  young  Judge.  Mr.  Calvin's  prac 
tice  doubled  and  trebled  and  Miss  Mauling  lost  small  caste 
with  the  nobility  and  gentry.  And  as  the  summer  deepened, 
Dr.  James  Nesbit  began  to  see  that  vanity  does  not  build 
self-respect. 

When  the  young  Judge  announced  his  candidacy  for  elec 
tion  to  fill  out  the  two  years'  unexpired  term  of  his  prede 
cessor,  no  one  opposed  Van  Dorn  in  his  party  convention; 
but  the  Doctor  had  little  liking  for  the  young  man's  inti 
macy  in  the  office  of  Joseph  Calvin  and  less  liking  for  the 
scandal  of  that  intimacy  which  arose  when  the  rich  litigants 
in  the  Judge's  court  crowded  into  Calvin's  office  for  counsel. 
The  Doctor  wondered  if  he  was  squeamish  about  certain  mat 
ters,  merely  because  it  was  his  own  son-in-law  who  was  the 
subject  of  the  disquieting  gossip  connected  with  Calvin's 
practice  in  Van  Dorn's  court.  Then  there  was  the  other 
matter.  The  Doctor  could  notice  that  the  town  was  having 
its  smile — riot  a  malicious  nor  condemning  smile,  but  a  tol 
erant,  amused  smile  about  Van  Dorn  and  the  M'auling  girl; 
and  the  Doctor  didn't  like  that.  It  cut  deeply  into  the 
Doctor's  heart  that  as  the  town's  smile  broadened,  his 
daughter's  face  was  growing  perceptibly  more  serious.  The 
joy  she  had  shown  when  first  she  told  him  of  the  baby's 
coming  did  not  illumine  her  face ;  and  her  laughter — her 
never  failing  well  of  gayety — was  in  some  way  being  sealed. 
The  Doctor  determined  to  talk  with  Tom  on  the  Good  of  the 
Order  and  to  talk  man-wise — without  feeling  of  course  but 
without  guile. 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT 

So  one  autumn  afternoon  when  the  Doctor  heard  the 
light,  firm  step  of  the  young  man  in  the  common  hallway 
that  led  to  their  offices  over  the  Traders'  Bank,  the  Doctor 
tuned  himself  up  to  the  meeting  and  cheerily  called  through 
his  open  door: 

"Tom — Tom,  you  young  scoundrel — come  in  here  and  let's 
talk  it  all  over." 

The  young  man  slipped  a  package  into  his  pocket,  and 
came  lightly  into  the  office.  He  waved  his  hand  gayly  and 
called:  "Well — well,  pater  familias,  what's  on  your  chest 
to-day?"  His  slim  figure  was  clad  in  gray — a  gray  suit, 
gray  "shirt,,  gray  tie,  gray  shoes  and  a  crimson  rose  bud  in 
his  coat  lapel.  As  he  slid  into  a  chair  and  crossed  his  lean 
legs  the  Doctor  looked  him  over.  The  young  Judge's  cor 
roding  pride  in  his  job  was  written  smartly  all  over  his 
face  and  figure.  "The  fairest  of  ten  thousand,  the  bright 
and  morning  star,  Tom,"  piped  the  Doctor.  Then  added 
briskly,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  $bout  Joe  Calvin."  The 
young  man  lifted  a  surprised  eyebrow.  The  Doctor  pushed 
ahead  as  he  pulled  the  county  bar  docket  from  his  desk  and 
pointed  to  it.  "Joe  Calvin's  business  has  increased  nearly 
fifty  per  cent,  in  less  than  six  months!  And  he  has  the 
money  side  of  eighty  per  cent,  of  the  cases  in  your  court!" 

"Well — "  replied  Van  Dorn  in  the  mushy  drawl  that  he 
used  with  juries,  "that's  enough!  Joe  couldn't  ask  more." 
Then  he  added,  eying  the  Doctor  closely,  "Though  I  can't 
say  that  what  you  tell  me  startles  me  with  its  suddenness." 

"  That's  just  my  point,"  cried  the  Doctor  in  his  high, 
shrill  voice.  "That's  just  my  point,  Thomas,"  he  repeated, 
"and  here's  where  I  come  in.  I  got  you  this  job.  I  am 
standing  for  you  before  the  district  and  1  am  standing  for 
you  now  for  this  election."  The  Doctor  wagged  his  head 
at  the  young  man  as  he  said,  ' '  But  the  truth  is,  Tom,  I  had 
some  trouble  getting  you  the  solid  delegation. ' ' 

"Ah?"  questioned  the  suave  young  Judge. 

"Yes,  Tom — my  own  delegation,"  replied  the  Doctor. 
"You  see,  Tom,  there  is  a  lot  of  me.  There  is  the  one  they 
call  Doc  Jim ;  then  there's  Mrs.  Nesbit's  husband  and  there's 
your  father-in-law,  and  then  there's  Old  Linen  Pants.  The 
old  man  was  for  you  from  the  jump.  Doc  Jim  was  for  you 


142  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  Mrs.  Nesbit's  husband  was  willing  to  go  with  the  ma 
jority  of  the  delegation,  though  he  wasn't  strong  for  you. 
But  I'll  tell  you,  Tom,"  piped  the  Doctor,  ''I  did  have  the 
devil  of  a  time  ironing  out  the  troubles  of  your  father-in- 
law." 

The  Doctor  leaned  forward  and  pointed  a  fat,  stern  finger 
at  his  son-in-law.  "Tom,"  the  Doctor's  voice  was  shrill 
and  steely,  "I  don't  like  your  didos  with  Violet  Mauling!" 
The  face  above  the  crimson  flower  did  not  flinch. 

"I  don't  suppose  you're  making  love  to  her.  But  you 
have  no  business  fooling  around  Joe  Calvin's  office  on  gen 
eral  principles.  Keep  out,  and  keep  away  from  her." 
And  then  the  Doctor's  patience  slipped  and  his  voice  rose: 
"What  do  you  want  to  give  her  the  household  bills  for? 
Pay  'em  yourself  or  let  Laura  send  her  checks!"  The  Doc 
tor's  tones  were  harsh,  and  with  the  amiable  cast  off  his  face 
his  graying  blond  pompadour  hair  seemed  to  bristle  mili- 
tantly.  The  effect  gave  the  Doctor  a  fighting  face  as  he 
barked,  "You  can't  afford  it.  You  must  stop  it.  It's  no 
way  to  do.  I  didn't  think  it  of  you,  Tom!" 

After  Van  Dorn  had  touched  his  black  wing  of  hair,  his 
soft  mustache  and  the  crimson  flower  on  his  coat,  he  had 
himself  well  in  hand  and  had  planned  his  defense  and 
counter  attacks.  He  spoke  softly: 

"Now,  Father  Jim — I'm  not — "  he  put  a  touch  of  feel 
ing  in  the  "not,"  "going  to  give  up  the  Mauling  girl. 
When  I'm  elected  next  month,  I'm  going  to  make  her  my 
court  stenographer!"  He  looked  the  Doctor  squarely  in 
the  face  and  paused  for  the  explosion  which  came  in  an 
excited,  piping  cry : 

"Why,  Tom,  are  you  crazy!  Take  her  all  over  the  three 
counties  of  this  district  with  you?  Why,  boy — "  But 
Judge  Van  Dorn  continued  evenly:  "I  don't  like  a  man 
stenographer.  Men  make  me  nervous  and  self-conscious, 
and  I  can 't  give  a  man  the  best  that 's  in  me.  And  I  propose 
to  give  my  best  to  this  job — in  justice  to  myself.  And 
Violet  Mauling  knows  my  ways.  She  doesn't  interpose  her 
self  between  me  and  my  ideas,  so  I  am  going  to  make  her 
court  stenographer  next  month  right  after  the  election." 

When  the  Doctor  drew  in  a  breath  to  speak,  Van  Dorn 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  143 

put  out  a  hand,  checked  the  elder  man  and  said  blandly  and 
smilingly,  "And,  Father  Jim,  I'm  going  to  be  elected — 
I'm  dead  sure  of  election." 

The  Doctor  thought  he  saw  a  glint  of  sheer  malicious  im 
pudence  in  Van  Dorn's  smile  as  he  finished  speaking: 
"And  anyway,  pater,  we  mustn't  quarrel  right  now — 
Just  at  this  time,  Laura — " 

1 1  You  're  a  sly  dog,  now,  ain  't  you !  Ain  't  you  a  sly  dog  ? ' ' 
shrilled  the  Doctor  in  sputtering  rage.  Then  the  blaze  in 
his  eyes  faded  and  he  cried  in  despair:  "Tom,  Tom,  isn't 
there  any  way  I  can  put  the  fear  of  God  into  you?" 

Van  Dorn  realized  that  he  had  won  the  contest.  So  he 
forbore  to  strike  again. 

"Doctor  Jim,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  jar  me  much  with 
the  fear  of  God.  You  have  a  God  that  sneaks  in  the  back 
door  of  matter  as  a  kind  of  a  divine  immanence  that  makes 
for  progress  and  Joe  Calvin  in  there  has  a  God  with  whis 
kers  who  sits  on  a  throne  and  runs  a  sort  of  police  court; 
but  one's  as  impossible  as  the  other.  I  have  no  God  at  all," 
his  chest  swelled  magnificently,  "and  here's  what  happens": 

He  was  talking  against  time  and  the  Doctor  realized  it. 
But  his  scorn  was  crusting  over  his  anger  and  he  listened 
as  the  young  Judge  amused  himself:  "I've  defended  gam 
blers  and  thugs — and  crooks,  some  rich,  some  poor,  mostly 
poor  arid  mostly  guilty.  And  Joe  has  been  free  attorney 
for  the  law  and  order  league  and  has  given  the  church  free 
advice  and  entertained  preachers  when  he  wasn  't  hiding  out 
from  his  wife.  And  he's  gone  to  conference  and  been  a 
deacon  and  given  to  the  Lord  all  his  life.  And  now  that 
it's  good  business  for  him  to  have  me  elected,  can  he  get  a 
vote  out  of  all  his  God-and-morality  crowd?  Not  a  vote. 
And  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  wiggle  my  finger  and  the  whole 
crowd  of  thugs  and  blacklegs  and  hoodlums  and  rich  and 
poor  line  up  for  me — no  matter  how  pious  I  talk.  I  tell 
you,  Father  Jim — there's  nothing  in  your  God  theory.  It 
doesn't  work.  My  job  is  to  get  the  best  out  of  myself  pos 
sible."  But  this  was  harking  back  to  Violet  Mauling  and 
the  young  Judge  smiled  with  bland  impertinence  as  he  fin 
ished,  "The  fittest  survive,  my  dear  pater,  and  I  propose  to 
keep  fit — to  keep  fit — and  survive!" 


144  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Doctor's  anger  cooled,  but  the  pain  still  twinged  his 
heart,  the  pain  that  canie  as  he  saw  clearly  and  surely  that 
his  daughter's  life  was  bound  to  the  futile  task  of  making 
bricks  without  straw.  Deep  in  his  soul  he  knew  the  an 
guish  before  her  and  its  vain,  continual  round  of  fallen 
hopes.  As  the  young  Judge  strutted  up  and  down  the  Doc 
tor's  office,  the  father  in  the  elder  man  dominated  him  and 
a  kind  of  contemptuous  pity  seized  him.  Pity  overcame 
rage,  and  the  Doctor  could  not  even  sputter  at  his  son-in- 
law.  "Fit  and  survive"  kept  repeating  themselves  over  in 
Dr.  Nesbit's  mind,  and  it  was  from  a  sad,  hurt  heart  that 
he  spoke  almost  kindly:  "Tom — Tom,  my  boy,  don't  be 
too  sure  of  yourself.  You  may  keep  fit  and  you  may  sur 
vive — but  Tom,  Tom — "  the  Doctor  looked  steadily  into  the 
bold,  black  eyes  before  him  and  fancied  they  were  being 
held  consciously  from  dropping  and  shifting  as  the  Doctor 
cried:  "For  God's  sake,  Tom,  don't  let  up!  Keep  on 
fighting,  son,  God  or  no  God — you've  got  a  devil — keep  on 
fighting  him ! ' ' 

The  olive  cheeks  flushed  for  a  fleeting  second.  Van  Dorn 
laughed  an  irritated  little  laugh.  "Well,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  to  the  door,  "be  over  to-night? — or  shall  we  come  over? 
Anything  good  for  dinner?" 

A  minute  later  he  came  swinging  into  his  own  office.  He 
pulled  a  package  from  his  pocket.  "Violet,"  he  said,  going 
up  to  her  writing  desk  and  half  sitting  upon  it,  as  he  put 
the  package  before  her,  "here's  the  candy." 

He  picked  up  her  little  round  desk  mirror,  smiled  at  her 
in  it,  and  played  rather  idly  about  the  desk  for  a  foolish 
moment  before  going  'to  his  own  desk.  He  sat  looking  into 
the  street,  folding  a  sheet  of  blank  paper.  When  it  became 
a  wad  he  snapped  it  at  the  young  woman.  It  hit  her  round, 
beautiful  neck  and  disappeared  into  her  square-cut  bodice. 

"Get  it  out  for  you  if  you  want  it?"  He  laughed  fatu 
ously. 

The  girl  flashed  quick  eyes  at  him,  and  said,  "Oh,  I  don't 
know,"  and  went  on  with  her  work.  He  began  to  read,  but 
in  a  few  minutes  laid  his  book  down. 

"How'd  you  like  to  be  a  court  stenographer?"  The  girl 
kept  on  writing.  "Honest  now  I  mean  it.  If  I  win  this 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  145 

election  and  get  this  job  for  the  two  years  of  unexpired 
term,  you'll  be  court  stenographer — pays  fifteen  hundred  a 
year."  The  girl  glanced  quickly  at  him  again,  with  fire 
in  her  eyes,  then  looked  conspicuously  down  at  the  key 
board  of  the  writing  machine. 

"I  couldn't  leave  home/'  she  said  finally,  as  she  pulled  out 
a  sheet  of  paper.  "It  wouldn't  be  the  thing — do  you  think 
so?" 

He  put  his  feet  on  the  desk,  showing  his  ankles  of  pride, 
and  fingering  his  mustache,  smiling  a  squinty  smile  with  his 
handsome,  beady  eyes  as  he  said:  "Oh,  I'd  take  care  of 
you.  You  aren't  afraid  of  me,  are  you?" 

They  both  laughed.  And  the  girl  came  over  with  a  sheet 
of  paper.  "Here  is  that  Midland  Valley  letter.  Will  you 
sign  it  now?" 

He  managed  to  touch  her  hand  as  she  handed  him  the 
sheet,  and  again  to  touch  her  bare  forearm  as  he  handed  it 
back  after  signing  it.  For  which  he  got  two  darts  from  her 
eyes. 

A  client  came  in.  Joseph  Calvin  hurried  in  and  out,  a 
busy  little  rat  of  a  man  who  always  wore  shiny  clothes 
that  bagged  at  the  knees  and  elbows.  George  Brotherton 
crashed  in  through  the  office  on  city  business,  and  so  the 
afternoon  wore  away.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  Thomas  Van 
Dorn  and  Miss  Mauling  locked  up  the  office  and  went  down 
the  hall  and  the  stairs  to  the  street  together.  He  released 
her  arm  as  they  came  to  the  street,  and  tipped  his  hat  as  she 
rounded  the  corner  for  home.  He  saw  the  white-clad  Doc 
tor  trudging  up  the  low  incline  that  led  to  Elm  Street. 

Dr.  Nesbit  was  asking  the  question,  Who  are  the  fit? 
Who  should  survive?  His  fingers  had  been  pinched  in  the 
door  of  the  young  Judge's  philosophy  and  the  Doctor  was 
considering  much  that  might  be  behind  the  door.  He  won 
dered  if  it  was  the  rich  and  the  powerful  who  should  sur 
vive.  Or  he  thought  perhaps  it  is  those  who  give  them 
selves  for  others.  There  was  Captain  Morton  with  his  one 
talent,  pottering  up  and  down  the  town  talking  all  kinds  of 
weather,  and  all  kinds  of  rebuffs  that  he  might  keep  the 
girls  in  school  and  make  them  ready  to  serve  society;  yet 
according  to  Tom's  standards  of  success  the  Captain  was 


146  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

unfit ;  arid  there  was  George  Brotlierton,  ignorant,  but  loyal, 
foolishly  blind,  of  a  tender  heart,  yet  compared  with  those 
who  used  his  ignorance  and  played  upon  his  blindness 
(and  the  Doctor  winced  at  his  part  in  that  game)  Mr. 
Brotherton  was  cast  aside  among  the  world 's  unfit ;  and 
so  was  Henry  Fenn,  fighting  with  his  devil  like  a  soldier; 
and  so  was  Dick  Bowman  going  into  the  mines  for  his 
family,  sacrificing  light  and  air  and  the  joy  of  a  free  life 
that  the  wife  and  children  might  be  clad,  housed  and  fed 
and  that  they  might  enjoy  something  of  the  comforts  of 
the  great  civilization  which  his  toil  was  helping  to  build 
up  around  them;  yet  in  his  grime  Dick  was  accounted  ex 
ceedingly  unfit.  Dick  only  had  a  number  on  the  com 
pany's  books  and  his  number  corresponded  to  a  share  of 
stock  and  it  was  the  business  of  the  share  of  stock  to  get 
as  much  out  of  Dick  and  give  him  back  as  little,  and  to  take 
as  much  from  society  in  passing  for  coal  as  it  could,  and 
being  without  soul  or  conscience  or  feeling  of  any  kind,  the 
share  of  stock  put  the  automatic  screws  on  Dick — as  their 
numbers  corresponded.  And  for  squeezing  the  sweat  out  of 
him  the  share  was  accounted  unusually  fit,  while  poor  Dick 
— why  he  was  merely  a  number  on  the  books  and  was  called 
a  unit  of  labor.  Then  there  was  Daniel  Sands.  He  had 
spread  his  web  all  over  the  town.  It  ran  in  the  pipes  under 
ground  that  brought  water  and  gas,  and  the  wires  above 
ground,  that  brought  light  and  power  and  communication. 
The  web  found  its  way  into  the  earth — through  deep  cuts  in 
the  earth,  worming  along  caverns  where  it  held  men  at  work ; 
then  the  web  ran  into  foul  dens  where  the  toilers  were  robbed 
of  their  health  and  strength  and  happiness  and  even  of  the 
money  the  toilers  toiled  for,  and  the  web  brought  it  all  back 
slimey  and  stinking  from  unclean  hands  into  the  place  where 
the  spider  sat  spinning.  And  there  was  his  son  and  daugh 
ter;  Mr.  Sands  had  married  at  least  four  estimable  ladies 
with  the  plausible  excuse  that  he  was  doing  it  only  to  give 
his  children  a  home.  Mr.  Sands  had  given  his  son  a  home,  to 
be  sure;  but  his  son  had  not  taken  a  conscience  from  the 
home — for  who  was  there  at  home  to  give  it?  Not  the  esti 
mable  ladies  who  had  married  Mr.  Sands,  for  they  had  none 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  147 

or  they  would  have  been  somewhere  else,  to  be  sure ;  not  Mr. 
Sands  himself,  for  he  was  busy  with  his  web,  and  conscience 
rips  such  webs  as  his  endways,  and  Daniel  would  have  none 
of  that.  And  the  servants  who  had  reared  the  youth  had 
no  conscience  to  give  him ;  for  it  was  made  definite  and  cer 
tain  in  that  home  that  they  were  paid  for  what  they  did,  so 
they  did  what  they  were  paid  for,  and  bestowing  consciences 
upon  young  gentlemen  is  no  part  of  the  duty  of  the  "help" 
in  a  home  like  that. 

As  for  his  daughter,  Anne,  again  one  of  God's  miracles 
was  wrought.  There  she  was  growing  in  the  dead  atmos 
phere  of  that  home — where  she  had  known  two  mothers  be 
fore  she  was  ten  and  she  saw  with  a  child 's  shrewd  eyes  that 
another  was  coming.  Yet  in  some  subsoil  of  the  life  about 
her  the  roots  of  her  life  were  finding  a  moral  sense.  Her 
hazel  eyes  were  questioning  so  curiously  the  old  man  who 
fathered  her  that  he  felt  uncomfortable  when  she  was  near 
him.  Yet  for  all  the  money  he  had  won  and  all  that  money 
had  made  him,  he  was  reckoned  among  the  fit.  Then  there 
was  the  fit  Mr.  Van  Dorn  and  the  fit  Mr.  Calvin.  Mr.  Calvin 
never  missed  a  Sunday  in  church,  gave  his  tithe,  and  revered 
the  law.  He  adjusted  his  halo  and  sang  feelingly  in  prayer 
meeting  about  his  cross  and  hoped  ultimately  for  his  crown 
as  full  and  complete  payment  and  return,  the  same  being  the 
legal  and  just  equivalent  for  said  hereinbefore  named  cross 
as  aforesaid,  and  Mr.  Calvin  was  counted  among  the  fit,  and 
the  Doctor  smiled  as  he  put  him  in  the  list.  And  Mr.  Van 
Dorn  had  confessed  that  he  was  among  the  fit  and  his  fitness 
consisted  in  getting  everything  that  he  could  without  being 
caught. 

But  these  reflections  were  vain  and  unprofitable  to  Dr. 
Nesbit,  and  so  he  turned  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the 
business  in  hand :  namely,  to  make  his  calling  and  reelection 
sure  to  the  State  Senate  that  November.  So  he  went  over 
Greeley  County  behind  his  motherly  sorrel  mare,  visiting  the 
people,  telling  them  stories,  prescribing  for  their  ailments, 
eating  their  fried  chicken,  cream  gravy  and  mashed  pota 
toes,  and  putting  to  rout  the  forces  of  the  loathed  opposition 
who  maintained  that  the  Doctor  beat  his  wife,  by  sometimes 


148  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

showing  said  wife  as  exhibit  "A"  without  comment  in  those 
remote  parts  of  the  county  where  her  proud  figure  was  un 
known. 

In  November  he  was  reflected,  and  there  was  a  torchlight 
procession  up  the  aisle  of  elms  and  all  the  neighbors  stood 
on  the  front  porch,  including  the  Van  Dorns  and  the  Mor 
tons  and  John  Kollauder  in  his  blue  soldier  clothes,  carrying 
the  flag  into  another  county  office,  and  the  Henry  Fenns, 
while  the  Doctor  addressed  the  multitude !  And  there  was 
cheering,  whereupon  Mr.  Van  Dorn,  Judge  pro  tern  and 
Judge-elect,  made  a  speech  with  eloquence  and  fire  in  it; 
John  Kollander  made  his  well-known  flag  speech,  and  Cap 
tain  Morton  got  some  comfort  out  of  the  election  of  Comrade 
Nesbit,  who  had  stood  where  bullets  were  thickest  and  as  a 
boy  had  bared  his  breast  to  the  foe  to  save  his  country,  and 
drawing  the  Doctor  into  the  corner,  filed  early  application  to 
be  made  sergeant-at-arms  of  the  State  Senate  and  was  prom 
ised  that  or  Something  Equally  Good.  The  hungry  friends 
of  the  new  Senator  so  loaded  him  with  obligations  that 
blessed  night  that  he  again  sold  his  soul  to  the  devil,  went 
in  with  the  organization,  got  all  the  places  for  all  his  people, 
and  being  something  of  an  organizer  himself,  distributed  the 
patronage  for  half  the  State. 

Ten  days  later — or  perhaps  it  may  have  been  two  weeks 
later,  at  half  past  five  in  the  evening — the  Judge-elect  was 
sitting  at  his  desk,  handsomely  dressed  in  black — as  befitting 
the  dignity  of  his  office.  He  and  his  newly  appointed  court 
stenographer  had  returned  the  hour  before  from  an  adjoin 
ing  county  where  they  had  been  holding  court.  The  Judge 
was  alone,  if  one  excepts  the  young  woman  at  the  typewriting 
desk,  before  whom  he  was  preening,  as  though  she  were  a 
mere  impersonal  mirror.  During  the  hour  tfye  Judge  had 
visited  the  tailor's  and  had  returned  to  his  office  wearing  a 
new,  long-tailed  coat.  His  black  silk  neck-scarf  was  resplend- 
ently  new,  his  large,  soft,  black  hat — of  a  type  much  fa 
vored  by  statesmen  in  that  day — was  cocked  at  a  frivolous 
angle,  showing  the  raven's  wing  of  black  hair  upon  his  fine 
forehead.  A  black  silk  watchguard  crossed  his  black  vest; 
his  patent  leather  shoes  shone  below  his  trim  black  silk  socks, 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  149 

and  he  rubbed  his  smooth,  olive  cheek  with  the  yellow  chrys 
anthemum  upon  his  coat  lapel. 

"Gee,  but  you're  swell,"  said  Miss  Mauling.  "You  look 
good  enough  to  eat." 

"Might  try  a  bite — if  you  feel  that  way  about  it,"  replied 
the  Judge.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  tried  them 
under  his  long  coat  tails,  buttoned  the  coat  and  thrust  one 
hand  between  the  buttons,  put  one  hand  in  a  trousers' 
pocket,  letting  the  other  fall  at  his  side,  put  both  hands 
behind  him,  and  posed  for  a  few  minutes  exchanging  more 
or  less  fervent  glances  with  the  girl.  A  step  sounded  in  the 
hallway.  The  man  and  woman  obviously  listened.  It  was  a 
heavy  tread ;  it  was  coming  to  the  office  door.  The  man  and 
woman  slipped  into  Judge  Van  Dorn's  private  office.  When 
the  outer  door  opened,  and  it  was  apparent  that  some  one  was 
in  the  outer  office,  Miss  Mauling  appeared,  note  book  in 
hand,  quite  brisk  and  businesslike  with  a  question  in  her 
good  afternoon. 

"Where's  Van  Dorn?"  The  visitor  was  tall,  rawboned, 
and  of  that  physical  cast  known  as  lanky.  His  face  was 
flinty,  and  his  red  hair  was  untrimmed  at  the  neck  and  ears. 

"The  Judge  is  engaged  just  now,"  smiled  Miss  Mauling. 
"Will  you  wait?"  She  was  careful  not  to  ask  him  to  sit. 
Grant  Adams  looked  at  the  girl  with  a  fretful  stare.  He 
did  not  take  off  his  hat,  and  he  shook  his  head  toward  Van 
Dorn's  office  door  as  he  said  brusquely,  "Tell  him  to  come 
out.  It's  important."  The  square  shoulders  of  the  tall 
man  gave  a  lunge  or  hunch  toward  the  door.  "I  tell  you 
it's  important." 

Miss  Mauling  smiled.  "But  he  can't  come  out  just  now. 
He's  busy.  Any  message  I  can  give  him?" 

The  man  was  excited,  and  his  voice  and  manner  showed 
his  temper. 

"Now,  look  here — I  have  no  message;  tell  Van  Dorn  I 
want  him  quick." 

"What  name,  please?"  responded  Miss  Mauling,  who 
knew  that  the  visitor  knew  she  was  playing. 

"Grant  Adams — tell  him  it's  his  business  and  not  mine — 
except — ' ' 


150  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

But  the  girl  had  gone.  It  was  several  minutes  before 
Tom  Van  Dorn  moved  gracefully  and  elegantly  into  the 
room.  "Ah,"  he  began.  Grant  glared  at  him. 

"I've  just  driven  down  from  Nesbit's  with  Kenyon,  and 
Mrs.  Nesbit  says  to  tell  you  Laura's  there — came  over  this 
morning,  and  you're  to  come  just  as  quick  as  you  can.  They 
tried  to  get  you  on  the  'phone,  but  you  weren't  here.  Do 
you  understand?  You're  to  come  quick,  and  I've  left  my 
horse  out  here  for  you.  Kenyon  and  I'll  catch  a  car  home." 

The  pose  with  one  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket  and  the 
other  hanging  loosely  suited  the  Judge-elect  as  he  answered : 
"Is  that  all?"  Then  he  added,  as  his  eyes  went  over  the 
blue  overalls:  "I  presume  Mrs.  Nesbit  advised  you  as  to 
the  reason  for — for,  well — for  haste?" 

Grant  saw  Van  Dorii's  eyes  wander  to  the  girl's  for  ap 
proval.  "I  shall  not  need  your  horse,  Adams,"  Van  Dorn 
went  on  without  waiting  for  a  reply  to  his  question.  Then 
again  turning  his  eyes  to  the  girl,  he  asked:  "Adams,  any 
thing  I  can  do  to  repay  your  kindness?" 

"No — "  growled  Adams,  turning  to  go. 

"Say,  Adams,"  called  Van  Dorn,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
still  smiling  at  the  girl,  "you  wouldn't  take  a  cigar  in — in 
anticipation  of  the  happy — " 

Adams  whirled  around.  His  big  jaw  muscles  worked  in 
knots  before  he  spoke;  his  blue  eyes  were  set  and  raging. 
But  he  looked  at  the  floor  an  instant  before  crying : 

"You  go  to  hell!"  And  an  instant  later,  the  lank  figure 
had  left  the  room,  slamming  the  door  after  him.  Grant 
heard  the  telephone  bell  ringing,  and  heard  the  girl's  voice 
answering  it,  then  he  went  to  the  doctor's  office.  As  he  was 
writing  the  words  "At  Home"  on  the  slate  on  the  door,  he 
could  hear  Miss  Mauling  at  the  telephone. 

"Yes,"  and  again,  "Yes,"  and  then,  "Is  there  any  mes 
sage,"  and  finally  she  giggled,  "All  right,  I'll  call  him." 
Then  Grant  stalked  down  the  stairs.  The  receiver  was  hang 
ing  down.  The  Doctor  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  could 
hear  a  man  and  a  woman  laughing.  Van  Dorn  stepped  to 
the  instrument  and  said:  "Yes,  Doctor." 

Then,  "What— well,  you  don't  say!" 

And  still  again,  "Yes,  he  was  just  here  this  minute;  shall 


OUR  HERO  STROLLS  OUT  151 

I  call  him  back?"  And  before  hanging  up  the  receiver,  he 
said,  ''Why,  of  course," I'll  come  right  out." 

The  Judge-elect  turned  gracefully  around,  smiling  com 
placently:  "Well,  Violet— it's  your  bet.  It's  a  girl!" 

The  court  stenographer  poked  a  teasing  forefinger  at  him 
and  whittled  it  with  another  in  glee.  Then,  as  if  remember 
ing  something,  she  asked:  "How's  your  wife?" 

Van  Dorn's  face  was  blank  for  an  instant.  "By  George — 
that  '&  so.  I  forgot  to  ask. ' '  He  started  to  pick  up  the  tele 
phone  receiver,  but  checked  himself.  He  pulled  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  started  for  the  door,  waving 
merrily  and  rubbing  his  chin  with  his  flower. 

"Ta  ta,"  he  called  as  he  saw  the  last  of  her  flashing 
smile  through  the  closing  door. 

And  thus  into  a  world  where  only  the  fittest  survive  that 
day  came  Lila  Van  Dorn, — the  child  of  a  mother's  love. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEREIN  WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  AND  CONSIDER  A 
SERIOUS   QUESTION 

THE  journey  around  the  sun  is  a  long  and  tumultuous 
one.  Many  of  us  jolt  off  the  earth  as  we  ride,  others 
of  us  are  turned  over  and  thrown  into  strange  and 
absurd  positions,  and  a  few  of  us  sit  tight  and  edge  along,  a 
little  further  toward  the  soft  seats.  But  as  we  whirl  by  the 
stations,  returning  ever  and  again  to  the  days  that  are 
precious  in  our  lives,  to  the  seasons  that  give  us  greatest  joy, 
we  measure  our  gains,  on  the  long  journey,  in  terms  of  what 
we  love.  "A  little  over  a  year  ago  to-night,  my  dear," 
chirruped  Dr.  Nesbit,  pulling  a  gray  hair  from  his  temple 
where  hairs  of  any  kind  were  becoming  scarce  enough.  "A 
year,  a  month,  and  a  week  and  a  day  ago  to-night  the  town 
and  the  Harvey  brass  band  came  out  here  and  they  tramped 
up  the  blue  grass  so  that  it  won't  get  back  in  a  dozen  years. 

"Well,"  he  mused,  as  the  fire  burned,  "I  got  'em  all  their 
jobs,  I  got  two  or  three  good  medical  laws  passed,  and  I 
hope  I  have  made  some  people  happy." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  answered  his  wife.  "In  that  year  little 
Lila  has  come  into  short  dresses,  and  Kenyon  Adams  has 
learned  to  play  on  the  piano,  and  is  taking  up  the  violin.'' 

"How  time  has  floAvn  since  election  a  year  ago,"  said  Cap 
tain  Morton  to  his  assembled  family  as  they  sat  around  the 
base  burner  smoldering  in  the  dining-room.  "And  I've  put 
the  patent  window  fastener  into  forty  houses  and  sold  Henry 
Fenn  the  burglar  alarm  to  go  with  his. "  And  the  eldest  Miss 
Morton  spoke  up  and  said : 

"My  good  land,  I  hope  we'll  have  a  new  principal  by  this 
time  next  year.  Another  year  under  that  man  will  kill  me — 
pa,  I  do  wish  you'd  run  for  the  school  board." 

And  the  handsome  Miss  Morton  added,  "My  goodness, 

152 


WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  153 

Emma  Morton,  if  I  didn't  have  anything  to  do  but  draw 
forty  dollars  every  month  for  yanking  a  lot  of  little  kids 
around  and  teaching  them  the  multiplication  tables,  I 
wouldn't  say  much.  Why,  we've  come  through  algebra 
into  geometry  and  half  way  through  Cicero,  while  you've 
been  fussing  with  that  old  principal — and  Mrs.  Herdicker's 
got  a  new  trimmer,  and  we  girls  down  at  the  shop  have  to 
put  up  with  her  didoes.  Talk  of  trouble,  gee ! ' ' 

''Martha,  you  make  me  weary,"  said  the  youngest 
Miss  Morton,  eating  an  apple.  "If  you'd  had  scarlet 
fever  and  measles  the  same  year,  and  your  old  dress  just 
turned  and  your  same  old  hat,  you'd  have  something  to 
talk  about." 

"Well,"  remarked  His  Honor  the  Mayor  to  Henry  Fenn 
and  Morty  Sands  as  they  sat  in  the  Amen  Corner  New 
Year's  eve,  looking  at  the  backs  of  a  shelf  of  late  books  and 
viewing  several  shelves  of  standard  sets  with  highly  gilded 
backs,  "it's  more'n  a  year  since  election — and  well,  say — 
I've  got  all  my  election  bets  paid  now  and  am  out  of  debt 
again,  and  the  book  store's  gradually  coming  along.  By 
next  year  this  time  I  expect  to  put  four  more  shelves  of 
copyrighted  books  in  and  cut  down  the  paper  backs  to  a  stack 
on  the  counter.  But  old  Lady  Nicotine  is  still  the  patron  of 
the  fine  arts — say,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  'baccy  little  Georgie 
would  be  so  far  behind  with  his  rent  that  he  would  knock  off 
a  year  and  start  over. ' ' 

Young  Mr.  Sands  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  and 
said:  "It's  a  whole  year — and  Pop's  gone  a  long  time 
without  a  wife;  it'll  be  two  years  next  March  since  the  last 
one  went  over  the  hill  who  was  brought  out  to  make  a  home 
for  little  Morty,  and  I  saw  Dad  peeking  out  of  the  hack 
window  as  we  were  standing  waiting  for  the  hearse,  and 
wondered  which  one  of  the  old  girls  present  he'd  pick  on. 
But,"  mused  Morty,  "I  guess  it's  Anne's  eyes.  Every  time 
he  edges  around  to.  the  subject  of  our  need  of  a  mother, 
Anne  turns  her  eyes  on  him  and  he  changes  the  subject." 
Morty  laughed  quietly  and  added:  "When  Anne  gets  out 
of  her  'teens  she  '11  put  father  in  a  monastery ! ' ' 

"Honeymoon's  kind  of  waning — eh,  Henry?"  asked 
Judge  Van  Dorn,  who  dropped  in  for  a  magazine  and  heard 


154  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  conversation  about  the  passing  of  the  year.  He  added : 
''I  see  you've  been  coming  down  here  pretty  regularly  for 
three  or  four  months ! ' '  Henry  looked  up  sadly  and  shook 
his  head.  "You  can't  break  the  habit  of  a  dozen  years. 
And  I  got  to  coming  here  back  in  the  dajrs  when  George 
ran  a  pool  and  billiard  hall,  and  I  suppose  I'll  come  until  I 
die,  and  then  George  will  bring  his  wheezy  old  quartette 
around  and  sing  over  me,  and  probably  act  as  pall-bearer 
too — if  he  doesn't  read  the  burial  service  of  the  lodge  in 
addition." 

"Well,  a  year's  a  year,"  said  the  suave  Judge  Van  Dorn. 
"A  year  ago  you  boys  were  smoking  on  me  as  the  new  judge 
of  this  judicial  district.  All  hail  Thane  of  Cawdor — "  He 
smiled  his  princely  smile,  taking  every  one  in  with  his  frank, 
bold  eyes,  and  waved  himself  into  the  blustery  night.  There 
he  met  Mr.  Calvin,  who,  owing  to  a  turn  matters  had  taken 
at  home,  was  just  beginning  another  long  period  of  exile 
from  the  hearthstone.  He  walked  the  night  like  a  ghost, 
silent  and  grim.  His  thin  little  neck,  fun-owed  behind  by 
the  sunken  road  between  his  arteries,  was  adorned  by  two 
tufts  of  straggling  hair,  and  as  his  overcoat  collar  was  rolled 
and  wrinkled,  he  had  an  appearance  of  extreme  neglect  and 
dejection.  "Did  you  realize  that  it's  over  a  year  since 
election  ?"  said  Van  Dorn.  "We  might  as  well  begin  looking 
out  for  next  year,  Joe,"  he  added,  "if  you've  got  nothing 
better  to  do.  I  wish  you'd  go  down  the  row  to-night  and 
see  the  boys  and  tell  them  I  want  to  talk  to  them  in  the  next 
ten  days  or  so ;  a  man  never  can  be  too  early  in  these  things ; 
and  say — if  you  happen  in  the  Company  store  down  there 
and  see  Violet  Mauling,  slip  her  a  ten  and  charge  it  to  me 
on  the  books ;  I  wonder  how  she 's  doing — I  haven 't  heard  of 
her  for  three  months.  Nice  girl,  Violet." 

And  Mrs.  Herdicker  hadn't  heard  of  Miss  Mauling  for 
some  time,  and  sitting  in  her  little  office  back  of  the  millinery 
store,  sorting  over  her  old  bills,  she  came,  to  a  bill  badly  dog 
eared  with  Miss  Mauling 's  name  on  it.  The  bill  called  for 
something  like  $75  and  the  last  payment  on  it  had  been  made 
nearly  half  a  year  ago.  So  she  looked  at  that  bill  and  added 
ten  dollars  to  Mrs.  Van  Dorn's  bill  for  the  last  hat  she 
bought,  and  did  what  she  could  to  resign  herself  to  the  in- 


WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  155 

justices  of  a  cruel  world.  But  it  had  been  a  good  year  for 
Mrs.  Herdicker.  New  wells  in  new  districts  had  come 
gushing  gas  and  oil  into  Harvey  in  great  geysers  and  the 
work  on  the  new  smelter  was  progressing,  and  the  men  in 
the  mines  had  been  kept  steadily  at  work;  for  Harvey  coal 
was  the  best  in  the  Missouri  Valley.  So  the  ladies  who  are 
no  better  than  they  should  be  and  the  ladies  who  are  much 
better  than  they  should  be,  and  the  ladies  who  will  stand  for 
a  turned  ribbon,  and  a  revived  feather,  and  are  just  about 
what  they  may  be  expected  to  be,  all  came  in  and  spent 
their  money  like  the  princesses  that  they  were.  And  Mrs. 
Herdicker  figured  in  going  over  her  stock  just  which  hat 
she  could  sell  to  Mrs.  Nesbit  as  a  model  hat  from  the  Paris 
exhibit  at  the  World's  Fair,  and  which  one  she  could  put  on 
Mrs.  Fenn  as  a  New  York  sample,  and  as  she  built  her  castles 
the  loss  of  the  $75  to  Miss  Mauling  had  its  compensating 
returns,  xand  she  smiled  and  thought  that  just  a  year  ago 
she  had  offered  that  same  World's  Fair  Model  to  the  wife  of 
the  newly  elected  State  Senator  and  she  must  put  on  a  new 
bunch  of  flowers  and  bend  down  the  brim. 

The  Dexters  were  sitting  by  the  stove  in  the  living-room 
with  Amos  Adams;  they  had  come  down  to  the  lonely  little 
home  to  prepare  a  good  dinner  for  the  men.  "A  year  ago 
to-day,"  said  the  minister  to  the  group  as  he  put  down  the 
newspaper,  "Kenyon  got  his  new  fiddle." 

"The  year  has  brought  me  something — I  tell  you,"  Jas 
per  said.  "I've  bought  a  horse  with  my  money  I  earned  as 
page  in  the  State  Senate  and  I've  got  a  milk  route,  and 
have  all  the  milk  in  the  neighborhood  to  distribute.  That's 
what  the  year  has  done  for  me." 

"Well,"  reflected  the  minister,  "we've  got  the  mission 
church  in  South  Harvey  on  a  paying  basis,  and  the  pipe 
organ  in  the  home  church  paid  for — that's  some  comfort. 
And  they  do  say,"  his  eyes  twinkled  as  he  looked  at  his 
wife,  "that  the  committee  is  about  to  settle  all  the  choir 
troubles.  That's  pretty  good  for  a  year." 

"Another  year,"  sighed  Amos  Adams,  and  the  wind 
blew  through  the  gaunt  branches  of  the  cottoiiwood  trees  in 
the  yard,  and  far  down  in  the  valley  came  the  moaning  as 
of  many  waters,  and  the  wind  played  its  harmonies  in  the 


156  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

woodlot.  The  old  man  repeated  the  words:  "Another 
year,"  and  asked  himself  how  many  more  years  he  would 
have  to  wait  and  listen  to  the  sighing  of  the  moaning  waters 
that  washed  around  the  world.  And  Kenyon  Adams,  lying 
flushed  and  tousled  and  tired  upon  a  couch  near  by,  heard 
the  waters  in  his  dreams  and  they  made  such  music  that  his 
thin,  little  face  moved  in  an  eyrie  smile. 

"Mag,"  said  a  pale,  nervous  girl  with  dead,  sad  eyes  as 
she  looked  around  at  the  new  furniture  in  the  new  house, 
and  avoided  the  rim  of  soft  light  that  came  from  the  elec 
tric  under  the  red  shade,  "did  you  think  I  was  cheeky  to 
ask  you  all  those  questions  over  the  'phone — about  where 
Henry  was  to-night,  and  what  you'd  be  doing?"  The  host 
ess  said:  "Why,  no,  Violet,  no— I'm  always  glad  to  see 
you." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  girl  exclaimed :  "That's  what 
I  come  out  for.  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  Mag,  what 
in  God's  name  have  I  done?  Didn't  you  see  me  the  other 
day  on  Market  Street?  You  were  looking  right  at  me.  It's 
been  nearly  a  year  since  we  've  talked.  You  used  to  couldn  't 
get  along  a  week  without  a  good  talk;  but  now — say,  Mag, 
what's  the  matter?  what  have  I  done  to  make  you  treat  me 
like  this?"  There  was  a  tremor  in  the  girl's  voice.  She 
looked  piteously  at  the  wife,  radiant  in  her  red  house  gown. 
The  hostess  spoke.  "Look  here,  Violet  Mauling,  I  did  see 
you  on  Market  Street,  and  I  did  cut  you  dead.  I  knew  it 
would  bring  you  up  standing  and  we'd  have  this  thing  out." 

The  girl  looked  her  question,  but  flushed.  Then  she  said, 
"You  mean  the  old  man?" 

"I  mean  the  old  man.  It's  perfectly  scandalous,  Violet; 
didn't  you  get  your  lesson  with  Van  Dorii?"  returned  the 
hostess.  "The  old  man  won't  marry  you — you  don't  expect 
that,  do  you?"  The  girl  shook  her  head.  The  woman  con 
tinued,  "Well,  then  drop  it.  You  can't  afford  to  be  seen 
with  him." 

"Mag,"  returned  the  visitor,  "I  tell  you  before  God  I 
can't  afford  not  to.  It's  my  job.  It's  all  I've  got.  Mamma 
hasn't  another  soul  except  me  to  depend  on.  And  he's 
harmless — the  old  coot's  as  harmless  as  a  child.  Honest 
and  true,  Mag,  if  I  ever  told  the  truth  that's  it.  He  just 


WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  157 

stands  around  and  is  silly — just  makes  foolish  breaks  to  hear 
himself  talk — that's  all.  But  what  can  I  do?  He  keeps  me 
in  the  company  store,  and  Heaven  knows  he  doesn  't  kill  him 
self  paying  me — only  $8  a  week,  as  far  as  that  goes,  and 
then  he  talks  and  talks  and  talks  about  Judge  Van  Dorn, 
and  snickers  and  drops  his  front  false  teeth — ugh! — and 
drivels.  But,  Mag,  he's  harmless  as  a  baby." 

"Well,"  returned  the  hostess,  "Henry  says  every  one  is 
talking  about  it,  and  you're  a  common  scandal,  Violet  Maul 
ing,  and  you  ought  to  know  it.  I  can't  hold  you  up,  as  you 
well  know — no  one  can." 

Then  there  followed  a  flood  of  tears,  and  after  it  had  sub 
sided  the  two  women  were  sitting  on  a  couch.  "I  want  to 
tell  you  about  Tom  Van  Dorn,  Mag — you  never  understood. 
You  thought  I  used  to  chase  him.  God  knows  I  didn't,  Mag 
— honest,  honest,  honest !  You  knew  as  well  as  anything  all 
about  it ;  but  I  never  told  you  how  I  fought  and  fought  and 
all  that  and  how  little  by  little  he  came  closer  and  closer, 
and  no  one  ever  will  know  how  I  cried  and  how  ashamed  I 
was  and  how  I  tried  to  fight  him  off.  That's  the  God's  truth, 
Mag — the  God's  truth  if  you  ever  heard  it." 

The  girl  sobbed  and  hid  her  face.  "Once  when  papa 
died  he  sent  me  a  hundred  dollars  through  Mr.  Brother- 
ton,  and  mamma  thought  it  came  from  the  Lodge;  but  I 
knew  better.  And,  0  Mag,  Mag,  you'll  never  know  how  I 
felt  to  bury  papa  on  that  kind  of  money.  And  I  saved  for 
nearly  a  year  to  pay  it  back,  and  of  course  I  couldn  't,  for  he 
kept  getting  me  expensive  things  and  I  had  to  get  things  to 
go  with  'em  and  went  in  debt,  and  then  when  I  went  there  in 
the  office  it  was  all  so — so  close  and  I  couldn't  fight,  and  he 
was  so  powerful — you  know  just  how  big  and  strong,  and — 
O  Mag,  Mag,  Mag — you'll  never  know  how  I  tried — but  I 
just  couldn't.  Then  he  made  me  court  reporter  and  took 
me  over  the  district."  The  girl  looked  up  into  the  great, 
soft,  beautiful  eyes  of  Margaret  Fenn,  and  thought  she  saw 
sympathy  there.  That  was  a  common  mistake ;  others  made 
it  in  looking  at  Margaret's  eyes.  The  girl  felt  encouraged. 
She  came  closer  to  her  one-time  friend.  "Mag,"  she  said, 
"they  lied  awfully  about  how  I  lost  my  job.  They  said 
Mrs.  Van  Dorn  made  a  row.  Honest,  Mag,  there's  nothing 


158  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

to  that.  She  never  even  dreamed  anything  was — well — 
was — don't  you  know.  She  wasn't  a  bit  jealous,  and  is  as 
nice  as  she  can  be  to  me  right  now.  It  was  this  way.  You 
know  when  I  sent  mamma  away  last  May  for  a  visit,  and  the 
Van  Doras  asked  me  over  there  to  stay?"  Mrs.  Fenn 
nodded.  "Well,"  continued  Violet,  "one  day  in  court— 
you  know  when  they  were  trying  that  bond  case — the  city 
bonds  and  all — well,  the  Judge  scribbled  a  note  on  his  desk 
and  handed  it  to  me.  It  said  my  room  door  creaked,  and 
not  to  shut  it."  She  stopped  and  put  her  head  in  her  hand 
and  rocked  her  body.  * '  I  know,  Mag,  it  was  awful,  but  some 
way  I  just  couldn't  help  it.  He  is  so  strong,  and — you 
know,  Mag,  how  we  used  to  say  there 's  some  men  when  they 
come  about  you  just  make  you  kind  of  flush  all  over  and 
weak — well,  he's  that  way.  And,  anyway,  like  a  fool  I 
dropped  that  note  and  one  of  the  jurors — a  farmer  from 
Union  township — picked  it  up  and  took  it  straight  to  .Doctor 
Jim." 

The  girl  hid  her  face  in  her  friend's  dress.  "It  was  aw 
ful."  She  spoke  without  looking  up.  "But,  0  Mag — Doc 
tor  Jim  was  fine — so  gentle,  so  kind.  The  Judge  thought  he 
would  cuss  around  a  lot,  but  he  didn't — not  even  to  him — 
the  Judge  said.  And  the  Doctor  came  to  me  as  bashful  and — 
as — well,  your  own  father  couldn't  have  been  better  to  you. 
So  I  just  quit,  and  the  Judge  got  me  the  job  in  the  Company 
store  and  the  Doctor  drops  in  and  she — yes,  Mag,  the  Judge's 
wife  comes  with  the  Doctor  sometimes,  and  now  it's  been  five 
months  to-day  since  I  left  the  court  reporter's  work  and  I 
have  hardly  seen  the  Judge  to  speak  to  him  since.  But  they 
all  know,  I  guess,  but  mamma,  and  I  sometimes  think  folks 
try  to  talk  to  her;  and  that  old  man  Sands  comes  snooping 
and  snickering  around  like  an  old  dog  hunting  a  buried 
bone,  and  he's  my  job,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

Neither  did  Margaret  know  what  to  do,  so  she  let  her  go 
and  let  her  stay,  and  knew  her  old  friend  no  more.  For 
Margaret  was  rising  in  the  world,  and  could  have  no  encum 
brances;  and  Miss  Mauling  disappeared  in  South  Harvey  and 
that  New  Year's  Eve  marked  the  sad  anniversary  of  the 
break  in  her  relations  with  Mrs.  Fenn.  And  it  is  all  set 
down  here  on  this  anniversary  to  show  what  a  jolty  journey 


WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  159 

some  of  us  make  as  we  jog  around  the  sun,  and  to  show  the 
gentle  reader  how  the  proud  Mr.  Van  Dorn  hunts  his  prey 
and  what  splendid  romances  he  enjoys  and  what  a  fair 
sportsman  he  is. 

But  the  old  year  is  restless.  It  has  painted  the  sky  of 
South  Harvey  with  the  smoke  of  a  score  of  smelter  chimneys ; 
it  has  burned  in  the  drab  of  the  dejected-looking  houses,  and 
it  has  added  a  few  dozen  new  ones  for  the  men  and  their 
families  who  operate  the  smelter. 

Moreover,  the  old  year  has  run  many  new,  strange  things 
through  a  little  boy's  eyes  as  he  looks  sadly  into  a  queer 
world — a  little,  black-eyed  boy,  while  a  grand  lady  with  a 
high  head  sits  on  a  piano  bench  beside  the  child  and  plays 
for  him  the  grand  music  that  was  fashionable  in  her  grand 
day.  The  passing  year  pressed  into  his  little  heart  all  that 
the  music  told  him — not  of  the  gray  misery  of  South  Harvey, 
not  of  the  thousands  who  are  mourning  and  toiling  there, 
but  instead  the  old  year  has  whispered  to  the  child  the  beau 
tiful  mystic  tales  of  great  souls  doing  noble  deeds,  of  heroes 
who  died  that  men  might  live  and  love,  of  beauty  and  of 
harmony  too  deep  for  any  words  of  his  that  throb  in  him 
and  stir  depths  in  his  soul  to  high  aspiration.  It  has  all  gone 
through  his  ears;  for  his  eyes  see  little  that  is  beautiful. 
There  is,  of  course,  the  beauty  of  the  homely  hours  he  spends 
with  those  who  love  him  best,  hours  spent  at  school  and  joy 
ous  hours  spent  by  the  murmuring  creek,  and  there  is  what 
the  grand  lady  at  the  piano  thinks  is  a  marvel  of  beauty  in 
the  ornate  home  upon  the  hill.  But  the  most  beautiful  thing 
he  sees  as  the  old  year  winds  the  passing  panorama  of  life 
for  his  eyes  is  the  sunshine  and  prairie  grass.  This  comes 
to  him  of  a  Sunday  when  he  walks  with  Grant — brother 
Grant,  out  in  the  fields  far  away  from  South  Harvey — 
where  the  frosty  breath  of  autumn  has  turned  the  grass  to 
lavender  and  pale  heliotrope,  and  the  hills  roll  away  and 
away  like  silent  music  and  the  clouds  idling  lazily  over  the 
hillsides  afar  off  cast  dark  shadows  that  drift  in  the  laven 
der  sea.  Now  the  smoke  that  the  old  year  paints  upon  the 
blue  prairie  sky  will  fade  as  the  year  passes,  and  the  great 
smelters  may  crumble  and  men  may  plow  over  the  ground 
where  they  stand  so  proudly  even  to-day;  but  the  music  in 


160  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  boy's  heart,  put  there  by  the  passing  year,  and  the 
glory  of  the  sunshine  and  the  prairie  grass  with  the  meadow 
lark's  sad  evening  song  as  it  quivers  for  a  moment  in  the 
sunset  air, — these  have  been  caught  in  the  child's  soul  and 
have  passed  through  the  strange  alchemy  of  God's  great 
mystery  of  human  genius  into  an  art  that  is  the  heritage  of 
the  race.  For  into  the  mind  of  that  child — that  eyrie,  large- 
eyed,  wondering,  silent,  lonely-seeming  child — the  signals  of 
God  were  passing.  When  he  grew  into  his  man 's  estate  and 
could  give  them  voice,  the  winds  of  the  prairie,  low  and  gen 
tle,  the  soft  lisping  of  quiet  waters,  the  moving  passion  of 
the  hurricane,  the  idle  dalliance  of  the  clouds  whose  purple 
shadows  combed  the  rolling  hills,  and  all  the  ecstasy  of  the 
love  cry  of  solitary  prairie  birds,  found  meaning  and  the 
listening  world  heard,  through  his  music,  God  speaking  to 
His  children. 

So  the  year  moved  quickly  on.  Its  tasks  were  countless. 
It  had  another  child  to  teach  another  message.  There  was 
a  little  girl  in  the  town — a  small  girl  with  the  bluest  eyes  in 
the  world  and  tiny  curls — yellow  curls  that  wound  so  softly 
around  her  mother's  fingers  that  you  would  think  that  they 
were  not  curls  at  all  but  golden  dreams  of  curls  that  had 
for  the  moment  come  true  and  would  fade  back  into  fairy 
land  whence  they  came.  And  the  passing  year  had  to  prop 
the  child  at  a  window  while  the  dusk  came  creeping  into 
the  quiet  house.  There  she  sat  waiting,  watching,  hoping 
that  the  proud,  handsome  man  who  came  at  twilight  down 
the  way  leading  to  the  threshold,  would  smile  at  her.  She 
was  not  old  enough  to  hope  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms 
where  she  could  cuddle  and  be  loved.  So  the  passing  year 
had  to  take  a  fine  brush  and  paint  upon  the  small,  wistful 
face  a  fleeting  shadow,  the  mere  ghost  of  a  sadness  that 
came  and  went  as  she  watched  and  waited  for  the  father 
love. 

And  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  the  punctilious,  gay,  re 
sistless,  young  Tom  Van  Dorn  was  deaf  to  the  deeper  voices 
that  called  to  him  and  beckoned  him  to  rest  his  soul.  And 
soon  upon  the  winds  that  roam  the  world  and  carry  earth 
dreams  back  to  ghosts,  and  bring  ghosts  of  what  we  would  be 
back  to  our  dreams — the  roaming  winds  bore  away  the 


WE  WELCOME  IN  A  NEW  YEAR  161 

passing  year,  but  they  could  not  take  the  shadows  that  it 
left  upon  the  child's  tender  heart. 

Now,  when  the  old  year  with  all  its  work  lay  down  in  the 
innumerable  company  of  its  predecessors,  and  the  bells  rang 
and  the  whistles  blew  in  South  Harvey  to  welcome  in  the 
new  year,  the  midnight  sky  was  blazoned  with  the  great 
torches  from  the  smelter  chimneys,  and  the  pumps  in  the  oil 
wells  kept  up  their  dolorous  whining  and  complaining,  like 
great  insects  battening  upon  an  abandoned  world.  In  South 
Harvey  the  lights  of  the  saloons  and  the  side  of  the  dragon's 
spawn  glowed  and  beckoned  men  to  death.  Money  tinkled 
over  the  bars,  and  whispered  as  it  was  crumpled  in  the 
claws  of  the  dragon.  For  money  the  scurrying  human  ants 
hurried  along  the  dark,  half-lighted  streets  from  the  ant 
hills  over  the  mines.  For  money  the  cranes  of  the  pumps 
creaked  their  monody.  For  money  the  half -naked  men  toiled 
to  their  death  in  the  fumes  of  the  smelter.  So  the  New 
Year's  bells  rang  a  pean  of  welcome  to  the  money  that  the 
New  Year  would  bring  with  its  toll  of  death. 

' '  Money, ' '  clanged  the  church  bells  in  the  town  on  the  hill. 
6 '  Money  makes  wealth  and  since  we  have  banished  our  kings 
and  stoned  our  priests,  money  is  the  only  thing  in  our  mate 
rial  world  that  will  bring  power  and  power  brings  pleasure 
and  pleasure  brings  death." 

''And  death?  and  death?  and  death?"  tolled  the  church 
bells  that  glad  New  Year,  and  then  ceased  in  circling  waves 
of  sound  that  enveloped  the  world,  still  inquiring — "and 
death?  and  death?"  fainter  and  fainter  until  dawn. 

The  little  boy  who  heard  the  bells  may  have  heard  their 
plaintive  question ;  for  in  the  morning  twilight,  sitting  in  his 
nightgown  on  his  high  chair  looking  into  the  cheerful  mouth 
of  the  glowing  kitchen  stove,  while  the  elders  prepared 
breakfast,  the  child  who  had  been  silent  for  a  long  time 
raised  his  face  and  asked : 

'  *  Grant — what  is  death  ? ' '  The  youth  at  his  task  an 
swered  by  telling  about  the  buried  seed  and  the  quickening 
plant.  The  child  listened  and  shook  his  head. 

"Father,"  he  asked,  addressing  the  old  man,  who  was 
rubbing  his  chilled  hands  over  the  fire,  "what  is  death?" 
The  old  man  spoke,  slowly.  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his 


162  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

beard  and  then  addressing  the  youth  who  had  spoken  rather 
than  the  child,  replied: 

" Death?  Death?"  and  looked  puzzled,  as  if  searching 
for  his  words.  "Death  is  the  low  archway  in  the  journey 
of  life,  where  we  all — high  and  low,  weak  and  strong,  poor 
and  rich,  must  bow  into  the  dust,  remove  our  earthly  trap 
pings,  wealth  and  power  and  pleasure,  before  we  rise  to  go 
upon  the  next  stage  of  our  journey  into  wider  vistas  and 
greener  fields." 

The  child  nodded  his  head  as  one  who  has  just  appraised 
and  approved  a  universe,  replying  sagely,  "Oh,"  then  after 
a  moment  he  added:  "Yes."  And  said  no  more. 

But  when  the  sun  was  up,  and  the  wheels  scraped  on  the 
gravel  walk  before  the  Adams  home,  and  the  silvery,  infec 
tious  laugh  of  a  young  mother  waked  the  echoes  of  the 
home,  as  she  bundled  up  Kenyon  for  his  daily  journey,  the 
old  man  and  the  young  man  heard  the  child  ask:  "Aunty 
Laura — what  is  death?"  The  woman  with  her  own  child 
near  in  the  very  midst  of  life,  only  laughed  and  laughed 
again,  and  Kenyon  laughed  and  Lila  laughed  and  they  all 
laughed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GRANT    ADAMS    IS    SOLD    INTO    BONDAGE    AND    MARGARET    FENN 
RECEIVES  A   SHOCK 

PEEHAPS  the  sound  of  their  laughter  drowned  the 
mournful  voices  of  the  bells  in  Grant  Adams's  heart. 
But  the  bells  of  the  New  Year  left  within  him  some 
stirring  of  their  eternal  question.  For  as  the  light  of  day 
sniffed  out,  Grant  in  a  cage  full  of  miners,  with  Dick  Bow 
man  and  one  of  his  boys  standing  beside  him,  going  down  to 
the  second  level  of  the  mine,  asked  himself  the  question  that 
had  puzzled  him :  Why  did  not  these  men  get  as  much  out 
of  life  as  their  fellows  on  the  same  pay  in  the  town  who  work 
in  stores  and  offices?  He  could  see  no  particular  difference 
in  the  intelligence  of  the  men  in  Harvey  and  the  workers  in 
South  Harvey;  yet  there  they  were  in  poorer  clothes,  with 
faces  not  so  quick,  clearly  not  so  well  kept  from  a  purely 
animal  standpoint,  and  even  if  they  were  sturdier  and 
physically  more  powerful,  yet  to  the  young  man  working 
with  them  in  the  mine,  it  seemed  that  they  were  a  different 
sort  from  the  white-handed,  keen-faced,  smooth-shaven,  well- 
groomed  clerks  of  Market  Street,  and  that  the  clerks  were 
getting  the  better  of  life.  And  Grant  cried  in  his  heart: 
"Why— why— why?" 

Then  Dick  Bowman  said:  "Red — penny  for  your 
thoughts?"  The  men  near  by  turned  to  Grant  and  he  said: 
"Hello,  Dick—"  Then  to  the  boy:  "Well,  Mugs,  how 
are  you?"  He  spoke  to  the  others,  Casper  and  Barney  and 
Evans  and  Hugh  and  Bill  and  Dan  and  Tom  and  Lew  and 
Gomer  and  Mike  and  Dick — excepting  Casper  Herdicker, 
mostly  Welsh  and  Irish,  and  they  passed  around  some  more 
or  less  ribald  greetings.  Then  they  all  stepped  upon  the 
soft  ground  and  stood  in  the  light  of  the  flickering  oil 
torches  that  hung  suspended  from  timbers. 

163 


164  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Stretching  down  long  avenues  these  flickering  torches 
blocked  out  the  alleys  of  the  mine  in  either  direction  from 
the  room,,  perhaps  fifty  by  forty  feet,  six  or  seven  feet  high, 
where  they  were  standing.  A  car  of  coal  drawn  by  forlorn 
mules  and  pushed  by  a  grinning  boy,  came  creaking  around 
a  distant  corner,  arid  drew  nearer  to  the  cage.  A  score  of 
men  ending  their  shift  were  coming  into  the  passageways 
from  each  end,  shuffling  along,  tired  and  silent.  They  met 
the  men  going  to  work  with  a  nod  or  a  word  and  in  a  mo 
ment  the  room  at  the  main  bottom  was  empty  and  silent, 
save  for  the  groaning  car  and  the  various  language  spoken 
by  the  grinning  boy  to  the  unhappy  mule.  Grant  Adams 
turned  off  the  main  passage  to  an  air  course,  where  from  the 
fans  above  cold  air  was  rushing  along  a  narrow  and 
scarcely  lighted  runway  about  six  feet  wide  and  lower  than 
the  main  passage.  Down  this  passage  the  new  mule  barn 
was  building.  Grant  went  to  his  work,  and  just  outside  the 
barn,  snuffed  a  sputtering  torch  that  was  dripping  burning 
oil  into  a  small  oily  puddle  on  the  damp  floor.  The  room 
was  cold.  Three  men  were  with  him  and  he  was  directing 
them,  while  he  worked  briskly  with  them.  Occasionally  he 
left  the  barn  to  oversee  the  carpenters  who  were  timbering 
up  a  new  shaft  in  a  lower  level  that  was  not  yet  ready  for 
operation.  Fifty  miners  and  carpenters  were  working  on 
the  third  level,  clearing  away  passages,  making  shaft  open 
ings,  putting  in  timbers,  constructing  air  courses  and  getting 
the  level  ready  for  real  work.  On  the  second  level,  in  the 
little  rooms,  off  the  long,  gloomy  passages  lighted  with  the 
flaring  torches  hanging  from  the  damp  timbers  that  stretched 
away  into  long  vistas  wherein  the  torches  at  the  ends  of  the 
passage  glimmered  like  fireflies,  men  were  working — two  hun 
dred  men  pegging  and  digging  and  prying  and  sweating  and 
talking  to  their  "buddies,"  the  Welsh  in  monosyllables  and 
the  Irish  in  a  confusion  of  tongues.  The  cars  came  jan 
gling  along  the  passageways  empty  and  went  back  loaded 
and  groaning.  Occasionally  the  piping  voice  of  a  boy  and 
the  melancholy  bray  of  a  mule  broke  the  deep  silence  of  the 
place. 

For  sound  traveled  slowly  through  the  gloom,  as  though 
the  torches  sapped  it  up  and  burned  it  out  in  faint,  trem- 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  165 

bling  light  to  confuse  the  men  who  sometimes  came  plodding- 
down  the  galleries  to  and  from  the  main  bottom.  At  nine 
o'clock  Grant  Adams  had  been  twice  over  the  mine,  on  the 
three  levels  and  had  thirty  men  hammering  away  for  dear 
life.  He  sent  a  car  of  lumber  down  to  the  mule  barn,  while 
he  went  to  the  third  level  to  direct  the  division  of  an  air 
shaft  into  an  emergency  escape.  On  one  side  of  this  air 
shaft  the  air  came  down  and  there  was  a  temporary  hoist 
for  the  men  on  the  third  level  and  on  the  other  side  a  wooden 
stairway  was  to  be  built  up  seventy  feet  toward  the  second 
level. 

At  ten  o'clock  Grant  came  back  to  the  second  level  by  the 
hoist  in  the  air  shaft  and  as  he  started  down  the  low  air 
course  branching  off  from  the  main  passage  and  leading  to 
the  new  mule  barn,  he  smelled  burning  pine;  and  hurrying 
around  a  corner  saw  that  the  boy  who  dumped  the  pine 
boards  for  the  mule  barn  had  not  taken  the  boards  into  the 
barn,  nor  even  entirely  to  the  barn,  but  had  dumped  them 
in  the  passage  to  the  windward  of  the  barn,  under  the  leaky 
torch,  and  Grant  could  see  down  the  air  course  the  ends  of 
the  boards  burning  brightly. 

The  men  working  in  the  barn  could  not  smell  the  fire,  for 
the  wind  that  rushed  down  the  air  course  was  carrying  the 
smoke  and  fumes  away  from  them.  Grant  ran  down  the 
course  toward  the  fire,  which  was  fanned  by  the  rushing  air, 
came  to  the  lumber,  which  was  not  all  afire,  jumped  through 
the  flames,  slapping  the  little  blazes  ou  his  clothes  with  his 
hat  as  he  came  out,  and  ran  into  the  barn  calling  to  the  men 
to  help  him  put  out  the  fire.  They  spent  two  or  three  min 
utes  trying  to  attach  the  hose  to  the  water  plug  there,  but 
the  hose  did  not  fit  the  plug;  then  they  tried  to  turn  the 
plug  to  get  water  in  their  dinner  pails  and  found  that  the 
plug  had  rusted  and  would  not  turn.  While  they  worked 
the  fire  grew.  It  was  impossible  to  send  a  man  back  through 
it,  so  Grant  sent  a  man  speeding  around  the  air  course,  to 
get  a  wrench  from  the  pump  room  or  from  some  one  in  the 
main  bottom  to  turn  on  the  water.  In  the  meantime  he  and 
the  other  two  men  worked  furiously  to  extinguish  the  fire  by 
whipping  it  with  their  coats  and  aprons,  but  always  the 
flames  beat  them  back.  Helplessly  they  saw  it  eating  along 


166  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  mine  timbers  far  down  the  vacant  passage.  Little  red 
devils  of  flame  that  winked  maliciously  two  hundred  feet 
away,  and  went  out,  then  sprang  up  again,  then  blazed 
steadily.  Grant  and  the  two  men  tugged  frantically  at  the 
burning  boards,  trying  to  drag  them  out  of  the  passageway 
into  the  barn,  but  only  here  and  there  could  an  end  be  picked 
up,  and  it  took  five  minutes  to  get  half  a  dozen  charred 
boards  into  the  barn.  While  they  straggled  with  the  charred 
boards  the  flames  down  the  passage  kept  glowing  brighter 
and  brighter.  The  men  were  conscious  that  the  flames  were 
playing  around  the  second  torch  below  the  barn.  Although 
they  realized  that  the  man  they  sent  for  the  wrench  had 
nearly  half  a  mile  to  go  and  come  by  the  roundabout  way, 
they  asked  one  another  if  he  was  making  the  wrench ! 

Men  began  poking  their  heads  into  the  course  and  calling, 
"Need  any  help  down  there/'  and  Grant  cried,  "Yes,  go 
to  the  pump  in  the  main  balcony  with  your  buckets  and 
get  water."  The  man  sent  for  the  wrench  appeared  down 
the  long  passage.  Grant  yelled, 

"Hurry — hurry,  man!"  But  though  he  came  running, 
the  fire  seemed  to  be  going  faster  than  he  was.  They  could 
hear  men  calling  and  felt  that  there  was  confusion  at  the 
end  of  the  air  course  where  it  turned  into  the  main  passage 
ahead  of  the  flames.  A  second  torch  exploded,  scattering 
the  fire  far  down  the  course.  The  man,  breathless  and  ex 
hausted,  ran  up  with  the  wrench.  Then  they  felt  the  air  in 
the  air  course  stop  moving.  They  looked  at  one  another. 
"Yes,"  said  the  man  with  the  wrench,  "I  told  'em  to  re 
verse  the  fans  and  when,  we  got  the  water  turned  on  we'd 
hold  the  fire  from  going  to  the  other  end  of  the  passage." 
He  said  this  between  gasps  as  he  tugged  at  the  water  plug 
with  the  wrench.  He  hit  it  a  vicious  blow  and  the  cap 
broke. 

The  fan  had  reversed.  The  air  was  rushing  back,  bringing 
the  flames  to  the  barn.  They  beat  the  fire  madly  with  their 
coats,  but  in  two  minutes  the  roaring  air  had  brought  the 
flames  upon  them.  The  loose  timber  and  shavings  in  the 
barn  were  beginning  to  blaze  and  the  men  ran  for  their  lives 
down  the  air  course.  As  they  ran  for  the  south  passage, 
the  smoke  followed  them  and  they  felt  it  in  their  eyes  and 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  167 

lungs.  The  lights  behind  them  were  dimmed,  and  those  in 
front  grew  dim.  They  reached  the  passage  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  but  it  was  going  up  the  air  shaft  and  did  not  fill  the 
passage.  "Mugs,"  yelled  Grant  to  a  boy  driving  an  ore  car, 
"run  down  this  passage  and  tell  the  men  there's  a  fire — 
where's  your  father?" 

"He's  up  yon  way,"  called  the  boy,  pointing  in  the  oppo 
site  direction  as  he  ran.  "You  tell  him."  The  fire  was 
roaring  down  the  air  course  behind  them,  and  Grant  and  the 
three  men  knew  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  reverse  air  would 
be  sucking  the  flames  up  the  air  shaft,  cutting  off  the  emer 
gency  escape  for  the  men  on  the  first  and  second  levels. 

Grant  knew  that  the  emergency  escape  was  not  completed 
for  the  third  level,  but  he  knew  that  they  were  using  the 
air  chute  for  a  temporary  hoist  for  the  men  from  the  third 
level  and  that  the  main  shaft  was  not  running  to  the  third 
level. 

"Run  down  this  passage,  Bill,"  called  Grant.  "Get  all 
those  fellows.  Evans,  you  call  the  first  level ;  I'll  skin  down 
this  rope  to  the  men  below."  In  an  instant,  as  the  men 
were  flying  on  their  errands,  his  red  head  disappeared  down 
the  rope  into  the  darkness.  At  the  bottom  of  the  hoist  in 
the  third  level  Grant  found  forty  or  fifty  men  at  work. 
They  were  startled  to  see  him  come  down  without  waiting 
for  the  bucket  to  go  up  and  he  called  breathlessly  as  his 
feet  touched  the  earth:  "Boys,  there's  a  fire  above  on  the 
next  level — I  don't  know  how  bad  it  is;  but  it  looks  bad  to 
me.  They  may  get  it  out  with  a  hose  from  the  main  bottom 
— if  they've  got  hose  there  that  will  reach  any  place." 

"Let's  go  up,"  cried  one  of  the  men.  As  they  started 
toward  him,  Grant  threw  up  his  hand. 

"Hold  on  now,  boys — hold  on.  The  fans  will  be  blowing 
that  fire  down  this  air  shaft  in  a  few  minutes.  How  far  up 
have  you  got  the  ladders?"  he  asked. 

Some  one  answered :  "Still  twelve  feet  shy."  There  was 
a  scramble  for  the  buckets,  but  no  one  offered  to  man  the 
windlass  and  hoist  them  up  the  air  shaft.  Grant  was  only 
a  carpenters'  boss.  The  men  around  the  buckets  were 
miners.  But  he  called:  "Get  out  of  there,  Hughey  and 
Mike — none  of  that.  We  must  make  that  ladder  first — 


168  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

get  some  timbers — put  the  rungs  three  feet  apart,  and  work 
quick. " 

He  pointed  at  the  timbers  to  be  used  for  the  ladders, 
stepped  to  the  windlass  and  cried: 

"Here,  Johnnie — you  got  no  family — get  hold  of  this 
windlass  with  me.  Ready  now — family  men  first — you,  Sam 
— you,  Edwards — you,  Lewellyn." 

Then  he  bent  to  the  wheel  and  the  men  in  the  bucket 
started  up  the  shaft.  The  others  pounded  at  the  ladder, 
and  those  who  could  find  no  work  clambered  up  the  stairs  to 
the  bottom  of  the  gap  that  separated  them  from  the  second 
level.  As  the  men  in  the  buckets  were  nearly  up  to  the  sec 
ond  level,  where  the  hoist  stopped,  Grant  heard  one  of  them 
call:  "Hurry,  hurry — here  she  comes,"  and  a  second  later 
a  hot,  smoky  wind  struck  his  face  and  he  knew  the  fan  was 
turned  again  and  soon  would  be  blowing  fire  down  the  air 
course. 

The  men  had  the  ladder  almost  finished.  The  men  above 
on  the  stairs  smelled  the  smoke  and  began  yelling.  The 
bucket  reached  the  top  and  was  started  down.  Grant  looked 
up  the  air  shaft  and  saw  the  fire — little  flickering  flames 
lighting  up  the  shaft  near  the  second  level.  The  air  rushing 
down  was  smoky  and  filled  with  sparks.  The  ladder  was 
ready  and  the  men  made  a  rush  with  it  up  the  stairway. 
Most  of  their  lamps  were  put  out  and  it  was  dark  in  the 
stairway.  The  men  were  uttering  hysterical,  foolish  cries 
as  they  rushed  upward  in  their  panic.  The  ladder  jolting 
against  the  sides  of  the  chamber  knocked  the  men  off  their 
feet  and  there  was  tumbling  and  swearing  and  tripping  and 
struggling. 

Grant  grabbed  the  ladder  from  the  men  and  held  it  above 
his  head,  and  called  out : 

"You  men  go  up  there  in  order.  You'll  not  get  the 
ladder  till  you  straighten  up." 

The  emergency  passage  was  filling  with  smoke.  The  men 
were  coughing  and  gasping. 

Up  and  down  the  stairs  men  called: 

"Brace  up,  that's  right." 

"Red's  right." 

"We'll  all  go  if  we  don't  straighten  up." 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  169 

In  a  moment  there  was  some  semblance  of  order,  and 
Grant  wormed  his  way  to  the  top  holding  the  ladder  above 
him.  He  put  one  end  of  it  on  a  landing  and  nailed  the  foot 
of  the  ladder  to  the  landing  floor.  Then  he  stood  on  the 
landing,  a  great,  powerful  man  with  blazing  eyes,  and  called 
down:  "Now  come;  one  at  a  time,  and  if  any  man  crowds 
I'll  kill  him.  Come  on — one  at  a  time."  One  came  and 
went  up;  when  he  was  on  the  third  rung  of  the  ladder, 
Grant  let  another  man  pass  up,  and  so  three  men  were  on 
the  ladder. 

As  the  top  man  raised  the  trapdoor  above,  Grant  and 
those  upon  the  ladder  could  see  the  flames  and  a  great  gust 
of  smoke  poured  down.  The  man  at  the  top  hesitated.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  partition  in  the  air  chute  the  smoke 
was  pouring  and  the  fire  was  circling  the  top  of  the  emer 
gency  escape  through  which  the  men  must  pass. 

"Go  ahead  or  jump  down,"  yelled  Grant. 

Those  on  the  ladder  and  on  the  landing  who  could  see  up 
cried : 

' '  Quick,  for  God 's  sake !     Hurry ! '  > 

And  in  another  second  the  first  man  had  scrambled 
through  the  hole,  letting  the  trapdoor  fall  upon  the  head  of 
the  scrambling  man  just  under  him.  He  fell,  but  Grant 
caught  him,  and  shoved  him  into  the  next  turn  upon  the 
ladder. 

After  that  they  learned  to  lift  their  hands  up  and  catch 
the  trapdoor,  but  they  could  see  the  flames  burning  the 
timbers  and  dropping  sparks  and  blowing  smoke  down  the 
emergency  shaft.  Ten  men  went  up;  the  fire  in  the  flume 
along  the  stairs  below  them  was  beginning  to  whip  through 
the  board  partition.  The  fan  was  pumping  the  third  level 
full  of  smoke;  it  was  carried  out  of  the  stairway  by  the 
current.  But  the  men  were  calling  below.  Little  Ira  Dooley 
tried  to  go  around  Grant  ahead  of  his  turn  at  the  ladder. 
The  cheater  felt  the  big  man's  hand  catch  him  and  hold 
him.  The  men  below  saw  Grant  hit  the  cheater  upon  the 
point  of  the  jaw  and  throw  him  half  conscious  under 
the  ladder.  The  men  climbed  steadily  up.  Twenty-five 
went  through  the  trap-door  into  the  unknown  hell  raging 
above.  Again  and  again  the  ladder  emptied  itself,  as  the 


170  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

flames  in  the  shaft  grew  longer,  and  the  circle  of  fire  above 
grew  broader.  The  men  passed  through  the  trapdoor  with 
scorching  clothes. 

The  ladder  was  filling  for  the  last  time.  The  last  man  was 
on  the  first  rung.  Grant  reached  under  the  ladder,  caught 
Dooley  about  the  waist  and  started  up  with  him.  On  the 
ladder  Dooley  regained  consciousness,  and  Grant  shoved  him 
ahead  and  saw  Dooley  slip  through  the  trapdoor  and  then 
stop  in  the  smoke  and  fire  and  stand  holding  up  the  door  for 
Grant.  The  two  men  smiled  through  the  smoke,  and  as 
Grant  came  through  with  his  clothes  afire,  he  and  Dooley 
looked  quickly  about  them.  Their  lights  were  out;  but  the 
burning  timbers  above  gave  them  their  directions.  They 
headed  clown  the  south  passage,  but  even  as  they  entered  it 
the  flames  barred  them  there.  Then  they  turned  to  go  up 
the  passage,  and  could  hear  men  calling  and  yelling  far  down 
in  the  dark  alley.  The  torches  were  gone.  Far  ahead 
through  the  stifling  smoke  that  swirled  about  the  damp 
timbers  overhead,  they  could  see  the  flickering  lights  of  men 
running.  They  started  to  follow  the  lamps.  Dooley,  who 
was  a  little  man,  slowly  dropped  back.  Grant  caught  his 
hand  and  dragged  him.  Soon  they  came  up  to  the  others, 
who  paused  to  give  them  lights.  Then  they  all  started  to 
run  again,  hoping  to  come  out  of  that  passage  into  the  main 
bottom  by  the  main  shaft  in  another  quarter  of  a  mile. 
Occasionally  a  man  would  begin  to  lag,  but  some  one  always 
stopped  to  give  him  a  hand.  Once  Grant  passed  two  men, 
Tom  Williams  and  Evan  Davis,  leaning  against  a  timber, 
Davis  fagged,  Williams  fanning  his  companion  with  his  cap. 

From  some  cross  passage  a  group  of  men  who  worked  on 
the  second  level  came  rushing  to  them.  They  had  no  lights 
and  were  lost.  Down  the  passage  they  all  ran  together,  and 
at  the  end  they  saw  something  cluttering  it  up.  The  open 
ing  seemed  to  be  closed.  The  front  man  tumbled  and  fell ; 
a  dozen  men  fell  over  him.  Three  score  men  were  trapped 
there,  struggling  in  a  pile  of  pipes  and  refuse  timber  that 
all  but  filled  the  passage  into  the  main  bottom.  Five  min 
utes  were  lost  there.  Then  by  twos  they  crawled  into  the 
main  bottom.  There  men  were  working  with  hose,  trying 
to  put  out  the  fire  in  the  air  course  leading  to  the  mule 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  171 

stables.  They  did  not  realize  that  the  other  end  of  the 
mine  was  in  flames. 

Coal  was  still  going  up  in  the  cages.  The  men  in  the  east 
and  west  passages  were  still  at  work.  Smoke  thickened  the 
air.  The  entrance  to  the  air  course  was  charred,  and  puffing 
smoke.  The  fans  relaxed  for  a  moment  upon  a  signal  to 
cease  until  the  course  was  explored.  A  hose  was  playing  in 
the  course,  but  no  man  had  ventured  down  it.  When  Grant 
came  out  he  called  to  the  men  with  the  cage  boss :  "Where's 
Kinnehan — where ?s  the  pit  boss?"  No  one  knew.  Some 
little  boys — trimmers  and  drivers — were  begging  to  go  up 
with  the  coal.  Finally  the  cage  boss  let  them  ride  up. 

While  they  were  wrangling,  Grant  said:  "Lookee  here — 
this  is  a  real  fire,  men;  stop  spitting  on  that  air  course  with 
the  hose  and  go  turn  out  the  men." 

The  men  from  the  third  level  were  clamoring  at  the  cage 
boss  to  go  up. 

Grant  stopped  them:  "Now,  here — let's  divide  off,  five 
in  a  squad  and  go  after  the  men  on  this  level,  and  five  in 
a  squad  go  up  to  the  next  level  and  call  the  men  out 
there.  There's  time  if  we  hurry  to  save  the  whole  shift." 
He  tolled  them  off  and  they  went  down  the  glimmering 
passages,  that  were  beginning  to  grow  dim  with  smoke.  As 
he  left  the  main  bottom  he  saw  by  his  watch  under  a  torch 
that  it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock.  He  ran  with  his  squad 
down  the  passage,  calling  out  the  men  from  their  little 
rooms.  Three  hundred  yards  down  the  smoke  grew  denser. 
And  he  met  men  coming  along  the  passage. 

"Are  they  all  out  back  of  you?"  he  called  to  the  men  as 
they  passed.  "Yes,"  they  cried,  "except  the  last  three  or 
four  rooms." 

Grant  and  his  men  pushed  forward  to  these  rooms.  As 
they  went  they  stumbled  over  an  unconscious  form  in  the 
passage.  The  men  behind  Grant — Dooley,  Hogan,  Casper 
Herdicker,  Williams,  Davis,  Chopini — joined  him.  Their 
work  was  done.  They  had  been  in  all  the  rooms.  They 
picked  up  the  limp  form,  and  staggered  slowly  back  down 
the  passage.  The  smoke  gripped  Grant  about  the  belly  like 
a  vise.  He  coiild  not  breathe.  He  stopped,  then  crawled  a 
few  feet,  then  leaned  against  a  timber.  Finally  he  rose  and 


172  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

came  upon  the  swaying  group  with  the  unconscious  man. 
Another  man  was  down,  and  three  men  were  dragging 
two. 

The  smoke  kept  rolling  along  behind  them.  It  blackened 
the  passage  ahead  of  them.  Most  of  the  lights  the  men  car 
ried  were  out.  Grant  lent  a  hand,  and  the  swaying  proces 
sion  crawled  under  the  smoke.  They  went  so  slowly  that 
one  man,  then  two  on.  their  hands  and  knees,  then  three  more 
caught  up  with  them  and  they  were  too  exhausted  to  drag  the 
senseless  man  with  them.  At  a  puddle  in  the  way  they 
soused  the  face  of  the  prostrated  man  in  the  water.  That 
revived  him.  They  could  hear  and  feel  another  man  across 
the  passage  calling  feebly  for  help.  Grant  and  Chopini, 
speaking  different  languages,  understood  the  universal  call 
of  distress,  and  together  crawled  in  the  dark  and  felt  their 
way  to  the  feeble  voice.  Chopini  reached  the  voice  first. 
Grant  could  just  distinguish  in  the  darkness  the  powerful 
movement  of  the  Italian,  with  his  head  upon  the  ground  like 
a  nosing  dog's  as  he  wormed  under  the  fallen  body  and  got 
it  on  his  back  and  bellied  over  to  the  group  that  was  slowly 
moving  down  the  passage  toward  the  glimmering  light.  As 
they  passed  the  rooms  vacated  by  the  miners,  sometimes 
they  put  their  heads  in  and  got  refreshing  air,  for  the  smoke 
moved  in  a  slow,  murky  current  down  the  passage  and  did 
not  back  into  the  rooms  at  first. 

Grant  and  Chopini  crawled  on  all  fours  into  a  room,  and 
found  the  air  fresh.  They  rose,  holding  each  other's  hands. 
They  leaned  together  against  the  dark  walls  and  breathed 
slowly,  and  finally  their  diaphragms  seemed  to  be  released 
and  they  breathed  more  deeply.  By  a  hand  signal  they 
agreed  to  start  out.  At  the  door  they  crouched  and  crawled. 
A  few  yards  further  they  found  the  little  group  of  a  dozen 
men  feebly  pushing  on.  Seven  were  trying  to  drag  five. 
Further  down  the  passage  they  could  hear  the  shrill  cries 
of  the  men  in  the  main  bottom,  as  they  came  hurrying  from 
the  other  runways,  and  far  back  up  the  dark  passage  behind 
them  they  could  hear  the  roar  of  flames.  They  saw  that 
they  were  trapped.  Behind  them  was  the  fire.  Before  them 
was  the  long,  impossible  stretch  to  the  main  bottom,  with  the 
smoke  thickening  and  falling  lower  every  second.  So  thick 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  173 

was  the  smoke  that  the  light  ahead  winked  out.  Death 
stood  before  them  and  behind  them. 

"Boys — »  gasped  Grant,  "in  here — let's  get  in  one  of 
these  rooms  and  wall  it  up." 

The  seven  looked  at  him  and  he  crawled  to  a  room ;  stick 
ing  his  head  in  he  found  it  murky.  He  tried  another.  _  The 
third  room  was  fresh  and  cool,  and  he  called  the  men  in. 

Then  all  nine  dragged  one  after  another  of  the  limp  bodies 
into  the  room  and  they  began  walling  the  door  into  the  pas 
sage.  There  were  two  lights  on  a  dozen  caps.  Grant  put  out 
one  lamp  and  they  worked  by  the  glimmer  of  a  single  lamp. 
Gradually,  but  with  a  speed — slow  as  it  had  to  be — inspired 
by  deadly  terror,  the  wall  went  up.  They  daubed  it  with 
mud  that  seemed  to  refresh  itself  from  a  pool  that  was 
hollowed  in  the  floor.  After  what  seemed  an  age  of  swiftly 
accurate  work,  the  wall  was  waist  high ;  the  smoke  bellied  in, 
in  a  gust,  and  was  suddenly  sucked  out  by  an  air  current, 
and  the  men  at  the  wall  tapping  some  spring  of  unknown 
energy  bent  frantically  to  their  task.  Three  of  the  six  men 
were  coming  to  life.  They  tried  to  rise  and  help.  Two 
crawled  forward,  and  patted  the  mud  in  the  bottom  crevices. 
The  fierce  race  with  death  called  out  every  man's  reserves 
of  body  and  soul. 

Then,  when  the  wall  was  breast  high,  some  one  heard  a 
choking  cry  in  the  passage.  Grant  was  in  the  rear  of  the 
room,  wrestling  with  a  great  rock,  and  did  not  hear  the  cry ; 
but  Chopirii  was  over  the  wall,  and  Dooley  followed  him,  and 
Evans  followed  him  in  an  instant.  They  disappeared  down 
the  passage,  and  when  Grant  returned,  carrying  the  huge 
rock  to  the  speeding  work  at  the  wall,  he  heard  a  voice  out 
side  call : 

"We've  got  'em." 

And  then,  after  a  silence,  as  the  workmen  hurried  with 
the  wall,  there  came  a  call  for  help.  Williams  arid  Dennis 
Hogan  followed  Grant  through  the  hole  now  nearing  the 
roof  of  the  room,  out  into  the  passage.  The  air  was  scorch 
ing.  Some  current  was  moving  it  rapidly.  The  second 
party  came  upon  the  first  struggling  weakly  with  Dick  Bow 
man  and  his  son.  Father  and  son  were  unconscious  and 
one  of  the  rescuing  party  had  fainted.  Again  the  vise 


174  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

gripped  Grant's  abdomen,  and  he  put  his  face  upon  the 
damp  earth  and  panted.  Slowly  the  three  men  in  the  dark 
ness  bellied  along  until  they  felt  the  wall,  then  in  an  agony 
of  effort  raised  themselves  and  their  burden.  Up  the  wall 
they  climbed  to  their  knees,  to  their  feet,  arid  met  the  hands 
of  those  inside  who  took  the  burden  from  them.  One,  two, 
three  whiffs  of  clean  air  as  they  stuck  their  heads  in  the 
room,  and  they  were  gone — and  another  two  men  from  the 
room  followed  them.  They  came  upon  the  first  party  work 
ing  their  gasping,  fainting  course  back  to  the  wall,  with 
their  load,  rolling  a  man  before  them.  And  they  all  pulled 
and  tugged  and  pushed  and  some  leaned  heavily  upon  others 
and  all  looked  death  squarely  in  the  face  and  no  man  whim 
pered.  The  panic  was  gone;  the  divine  spark  that  rests  in 
every  human  soul  was  burning,  and  life  was  little  and  cheap 
in  their  eyes,  compared  with  the  chance  they  had  to  give  it 
for  others. 

Flicks  of  fire  were  swirling  down  the  passage,  and  the 
roar  of  the  flames  came  nearer  and  Grant  fancied  he  could 
hear  the  crackle  of  it.  Chopini  was  on  his  knees  clutching 
at  the  crevices  in  the  wall;  Hogan  and  Dooley  dug  with 
their  hands  into  the  chinks,  then  four  men  were  on  their 
feet,  with  the  burden,  and  in  the  blackness,  hands  within 
the  wall  reached  out  and  took  the  man  from  those  outside. 
The  hands  reached  out  and  felt  other  hands  and  pulled  them 
up,  and  five,  six  men  stood  upon  their  feet  and  were  pulled, 
scrambling  and  trembling  and  reeling,  into  the  room.  The 
blackness  outside  became  a  lurid  glare.  The  flickering  lamp 
inside  showed  them  that  one  man  was  outside.  Grant  Adams 
stood  faint  and  trembling,  leaning  against  a  wall  of  the 
room ;  the  room  and  the  men  whirled  about  him  and  he  grew 
sick  at  the  stomach.  But  with  a  powerful  effort  he  gath 
ered  himself,  and  lunged  to  the  hole  in  the  rising  wall.  He 
was  trying  to  pull  himself  up  when  Dooley  pulled  him  down, 
and  went  through  the  hole  like  a  cat.  Hogan  followed 
Dooley  and  Evans  followed  Hogan.  "Here  he  is,  right  at 
the  bottom,"  called  Hogan,  and  in  an  instant  the  feet  of 
Casper  Herdicker,  then  the  sprawling  legs,  then  the  body 
and  then  the  head  with  the  closed  eyes  and  gaping  mouth 
came  in,  and  then  three  men  slowly  followed  him.  Grant, 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  175 

revived  by  the  water  from  the  puddle  under  him,  stood  and 
saw  the  last  man — Dennis  Ilogan — crawl  in.  Then  Grant, 
seeing  Hogan's  coat  was  afire,  looked  out  and  saw  flames 
dancing  along  the  timbers,  and  a  spark  with  a  gust  of  smoke 
was  sucked  into  the  room  by  some  eddy  of  the  current  out 
side.  In  a  last  spurt  of  terrible  effort  the  hole  in  the  wall 
was  closed  and  plastered  with  mud  and  the  men  were  sealed 
in  their  tomb. 

It  was  but  a  matter  of  minutes  before  the  furnace  was 
raging  outside.  The  men  in  the  room  could  hear  it  crackle 
and  roar,  and  the  mud  in  the  chinks  steamed.  The  men 
daubed  the  chinks  again  and  again. 

As  the  fire  roared  outside,  the  men  within  the  room  fan 
cied — anci  perhaps  it  was  the  sheer  horror  of  their  situation 
that  prompted  their  fancy — that  they  could  hear  the  screams 
of  men  and  mules  down  the  passage  toward  the  main  bottom. 
After  an  hour,  when  the  roar  ceased,  they  were  in  a  great 
silence.  And  as  the  day  grew  old  and  the  silence  grew  deep 
and  the  immediate  danger  past,  they  began  to  wait.  As 
they  waited  they  talked.  At  times  they  heard  a  roaring  and 
a  crash  and  they  knew  that  the  timbers  having  burned 
away,  the  passages  and  courses  were  caving  in.  By  their 
watches  they  knew  that  the  night  was  upon  them.  And  they 
sat  talking  nervously  through  the  night,  fearing  to  sleep, 
dreading  what  each  moment  might  bring.  Lamp  after  lamp 
burned  out  in  turn.  And  still  they  sat  and  talked.  Here 
one  would  drowse — there  another  lose  consciousness  and  sink 
to  the  ground,  but  always  men  were  talking.  The  talk  never 
ceased.  They  were  ashamed  to  talk  of  women  while  they 
were  facing  death,  so  they  kept  upon  the  only  other  subjects 
that  will  hold  men  long — God  and  politics.  The  talk  droned 
on  into  morning,  through  the  forenoon,  into  the  night,  past 
midnight,  with  the  thread  taken  from  one  man  sinking  to 
sleep  by  another  waking  up,  but  it  never  stopped.  The 
water  that  seeped  into  the  puddle  on  the  floor  moistened 
their  lips  as  they  talked.  There  was  no  food  save  in  two 
lunch  buckets  that  had  been  left  in  the  room  by  fleeing 
miners,  and  thus  went  the  first  day. 

The  second  day  the  Welsh  tried  to  sing — perhaps  to  stop 
the  continual  talk  of  the  Irish.  Then  the  Italian  sang  some- 


176  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

thing,  Casper  Herdicker  sang  the  "Marseillaise"  and  the 
men  clapped  their  hands,  in  the  twilight  of  the  last  flicker 
ing  lamp  that  they  had.  After  that  Grant  called  the  roll 
at  times  and  those  who  were  awake  felt  of  those  who  were 
asleep  and  answered  for  them,  and  a  second  day  wore  into 
a  third. 

By  the  feeling  of  the  stem  of  Grant  Adams's  watch  as  he 
wound  it,  he  judged  that  they  had  lived  nearly  four  days 
in  the  tomb.  Little  Mugs  Bowman  was  crying  for  food,  and 
his  father  was  trying  to  comfort  him,  by  giving  him  his  shoe 
leather  to  chew.  Others  rolled  and  moaned  in  their  sleep, 
and  the  talk  grew  unstable  and  flighty. 

Some  one  said,  "Hear  that?"  and  there  was  silence,  and 
no  one  heard  anything.  Again  the  talk  began  and  droned 
unevenly  along. 

"Say,  listen,"  some  one  else  called  beside  the  first  man 
who  had  heard  the  sound. 

Again  they  listened,  and  because  they  were  nervous  per 
haps  two  or  three  men  fancied  they  heard  something.  But 
one  said  it  was  the  roar  of  the  fire,  another  said  it  was  the 
sound  of  some  one  calling,  and  the  third  said  it  was  the 
crash  of  a  rock  in  some  distant  passageway.  The  talk  did 
not  rise  again  for  a  time,  but  finally  it  rose  wearily,  punc 
tuated  with  sighs.  Then  two  men  cried: 

' ' Hear  it !     There  it  is  again ! ' ' 

And  breathless  they  all  sat,  for  a  second.  Then  they 
heard  a  voice  calling,  "Hello — hello?"  And  they  tried  to 
cheer. 

But  the  voice  did  not  sound  again,  and  a  long  time  passed. 
Grant  tried  to  count  the  minutes  as  they  ticked  off  in  his 
watch,  but  his  mind  would  not  remain  fixed  upon  the  tick 
ing,  so  he  lost  track  of  the  time  after  three  minutes  had 
passed.  And  still  the  time  dragged,  the  watch  kept  ticking. 

Then  they  heard  the  sound  again,  clearer;  and  again  it 
called.  Then  Dick  Bowman  took  up  a  pick,  called : 

"Watch  out,  away  from  the  wall,  I'm  going  to  make  a 
hole." 

He  struck  the  wall  and  struck  it  again  and  again,  until  he 
made  a  hole  and  they  cried  through  it : 

"Hello— hello—    We're   here."     And   they   all   tried  to 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  177 

get  to  the  hole  and  jabber  through  it.  Then  they  could 
hear  hurrying  feet  and  voices  calling,  and  confusion.  The 
men  called,  and  cried  and  sobbed  and  cheered  through  the 
hole,  and  then  they  saw  the  gleam  of  a  lantern.  Then  the 
wall  crumbled  and  they  climbed  into  the  passage.  But  they 
knew,  who  had  heard  the  falling  timbers  and  the  crashing 
rocks,  for  days,  that  they  were  not  free. 

The  rescuers  led  the  imprisoned  miners  down  the  dark 
passage ;  Grant  Adams  was  the  last  man  to  leave  the  prison. 
As  he  turned  an  angle  of  the  passage,  a  great  rock  fell 
crashing  before  him,  and  a  head  of  dirt  caught  him  and 
dragged  him  under.  His  legs  and  body  were  pinioned. 
Dennis  Hogan  in  front  heard  the  crash,  saw  Grant  fall,  and 
stood  back  for  a  moment,  as  another  huge  rock  slid  slowly 
down  and  came  to  rest  above  the  prostrate  man.  For  a  sec 
ond  no  one  moved.  Then  one  man — Ira  Dooley — slowly 
crept  toward  Grant  and  began  digging  with  his  hands  at  the 
dirt  around  Grant's  legs.  Then  Casper  Herdicker  and  Cho- 
pini  came  to  help.  As  they  stood  at  Grant's  head,  quick  as 
a  flash,  the  rock  fell  and  the  two  men  standing  at  Grant's 
head  were  crushed  like  worms.  The  roof  of  the  passage  was 
working  wickedly,  and  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  lanterns 
they  could  see  the  .walls  shudder.  Then  Dick  Bowman 
stepped  out.  He  brought  a  shovel  from  a  room  opening  on 
the  passage,  and  Evan  Davis  and  Tom  Williams  and  Jamey 
McPherson  with  shovels  began  working  over  Grant,  who  lay 
white  and  frightened,  watching  the  squirming  wall  above 
and  blowing  the  dropping  dirt  from  his  face  as  it  fell. 

"Mugs,  come  here,"  called  Dick  Bowman.  "Take  that 
shovel,"  commanded  the  father,  "and  hold  it  over  Grant's 
face  to  keep  the  dirt  from  smothering  him."  The  boy 
looked  in  terror  at  the  roof  dropping  dirt  arid  ready  to  fall, 
but  the  father  glared  at  the  son  and  he  obeyed.  No  one 
spoke,  but  four  men  worked — all  that  could  stand  about  him. 
They  dug  out  his  body;  they  released  his  legs,  they  freed 
his  feet,  and  when  he  was  free  they  helped  him  up  and  hur 
ried  him  down  the  passage  which  he  had  traversed  four  days 
ago.  Before  they  turned  into  the  main  bottom  room,  he  was 
sick  with  the  stench.  And  as  he  turned  into  that  room, 
where  the  cage  landed,  he  saw  by  the  lantern  lights  and  by 


178  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  flaring  torches  held  by  a  dozen  men,  a  great  congrega 
tion  of  the  dead — some  piled  upon  other?,,  some  in  attitudes 
of  prayer,  some  shielding  their  comrades  in  death,  some 
fleeing  and  stricken  prone  upon  the  floor,  some  sitting,  look 
ing  the  foe  in  the  face.  Men  were  working  with  the  bodies — 
trying  to  sort  them  into  a  kind  of  order;  but  the  work  had 
just  begun. 

The  weakened  men,  led  by  their  rescuers,  picked  their 
way  through  the  corpses  and  went  to  the  top  in  a  cage. 
Far  down  in  the  shaft,  the  daylight  cut  them  like  a 
knife.  And  as  they  mounted  higher  and  higher,  they 
could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices  above  them,  and  Grant 
could  hear  the  sobs  of  women  and  children  long  before  he 
reached  the  top.  The  word  that  men  had  been  rescued 
passed  out  of  the  shaft  house  before  they  could  get  out  of  the 
cage,  and  a  great  shout  went  up. 

The  men  walked  out  of  the  shaft  house  and  saw  all  about 
them,  upon  flat  cars,  upon  the  dump  near  the  shaft,  upon 
buildings  around  the  shaft  house,  a  great  crowd  of  cheering 
men  and  women,  pale,  drawn,  dreadful  faces,  illumined  by 
eager  eyes.  Grant  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  crowd.  There  in  a 
carriage  beside  Henry  Fenn,  Grant  saw  Margaret  staring  at 
him,  and  saw  her  turn  pale  and  slide  down  into  her  husband 's 
arms,  as  she  recognized  Grant's  face  among  those  who  had 
come  out  of  death.  Then  he  saw  his  father  and  little  Ken- 
yon  in  the  crowd  and  he  dashed  through  the  thick  of  it  to 
them.  There  he  held  the  boy  high  in  the  air,  and  cried  as  the 
little  arms  clung  about  his  neck. 

The  great  hoarse  whistles  roared  and  the  shrill  siren 
whistles  screamed  and  the  car  bells  clanged  and  the  church 
bells  rang.  But  they  did  not  roar  and  scream  and  peal  and 
toll  for  money  and  wealth  and  power,  but  for  life  that  was 
returned.  As  for  the  army  of  the  dead  below,  for  all  their 
torture,  for  all  their  agony  and  the  misery  they  left  behind 
for  society  to  heal  or  help  or  neglect — the  army  of  the  dead 
had  its  requiem  that  New  Year's  eve,  when  the  bells  and 
whistles  and  sirens  clamored  for  money  that  brings  wealth, 
and  wealth  that  brings  power,  and  power  that  brings  pleas 
ure,  and  pleasure  that  brings  death — and  death? — and 
death  ? 


ADAMS  SOLD  INTO  BONDAGE  179 

The  town  had  met  death.  But  no  one  even  in  that  place 
of  mourning  could  answer  the  question  that  the  child  heard 
in  the  bells.  And  yet  that  divine  spark  of  heroism  that 
burns  unseen  in  every  heart  however  high,  however  low — 
that  must  be  the  faltering,  uncertain  light  which  points  us 
to  the  truth  across  the  veil  through  the  mists  made  by  our 
useless  tears. 

And  thus  a  New  Year  in  Harvey  began  its  long  trip 
around  the  sun,  with  its  sorrows  and  its  joys,  with  its  merry 
pantomime  and  its  mutes  mourning  upon  the  hearse,  with  its 
freight  of  cares  and  compensations  and  its  sad  ironies.  So 
let  us  get  on  and  ride  and  enjoy  the  journey. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A   CHAPTER   WHICH   INTRODUCES   SOME  POSSIBLE   GODS 

WHEN  Grant  Adams  had  told  and  retold  his  story 
to  the  reporters  and  had  eaten  what  Dr.  Nesbit 
would  let  him  eat,  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon. 
He  lay  down  to  sleep  with  the  sun  still  shining  through  the 
shutters  in  his  low-ceiled,  west  bed  room.  Through  the 
night  his  father  sat  or  slept  fitfully  beside  him  and  when 
the  morning  sun  was  high,  and  still  the  young  man  slept  on, 
the  father  guarded  him,  and  would  let  no  one  enter  the 
house.  At  noon  Grant  rose  and  dressed.  He  saw  the 
Dexters  coming  down  the  road  and  he  went  to  the  door  to 
welcome  them.  It  seemed  at  first  that  the  stupor  of  sleep 
was  not  entirely  out  of  his  brain.  He  was  silent  and  had 
to  be  primed  for  details  of  his  adventure.  He  sat  down  to 
eat,  but  when  his  meal  was  half  finished,  there  came  bursting 
out  of  his  soul  a  flame  of  emotion,  and  he  put  down  his  food, 
turned  half  around  from  the  table,  grasped  the  edges  of  the 
board  with  both  hands  and  cried  as  a  fanatic  who  sees  a 
vision : 

1  'Oh,  those  men, — those  men — those  wonderful,  beautiful 
souls  of  men  I  saw ! — those  strong,  fearless.  Godlike  men ! — 
there  in  the  mine,  I  mean.  Evan  Davis,  Dick  Bowman,  Pat 
McCann,  Jamey  McPherson,  Casper  Herdicker,  Chopini — all 
of  them;  yes,  Dennis  Hogan,  drunk  as  he  is  sometimes, 
and  Ira  Dooley,  who's  been  in  jail  for  hold-ups — I  don't 
care  which  one — those  wonderful  men,  who  risked  their  lives 
for  others,  and  Casper  Herdicker  and  Chopini,  who  gave 
their  lives  there  under  the  rock  for  me.  My  God,  my  God!" 

His  voice  thrilled  with  emotion,  and  his  arms  trembled  as 
his  hands  gripped  the  table.  Those  who  heard  him  did  not 
stop  him,  for  they  felt  that  from  some  uncovered  spring  in 
his  being  a  section  of  personality  was  gushing  forth  that 
never  had  seen  day.  He  turned  quietly  to  the  wondering 

180 


SOME  POSSIBLE  GODS  181 

child,  took  him  from  his  chair  and  hugged  him  closely  to  a 
man's  broad  chest  and  stroked  the  boyish  head  as  the  man's 
blue  eyes  tilled  with  tears.  Grant  sat  for  a  moment  looking 
at  the  floor,  then  roughed  his  red  mane  with  his  fingers  and 
said  slowly  and  more  quietly,  but  contentiously : 

"I  know  what  you  don't  know  with  all  your  religion,  Mr. 
Dexter;  I  know  what  the  Holy  Ghost  is  now.  I  have  seen 
it.  The  Holy  Ghost  is  that  divine  spark  in  every  human 
soul — however  life  has  smudged  it  over  by  circumstance — 
that  rises  and  envelopes  a  human  creature  in  a  flame  of  sac 
rificial  love  for  his  kind  and  makes  him  joy  to  die  to  save 
others.  That's  the  Holy  Ghost — that's  what  is  immortal." 

He  clenched  his  great  hickory  fist  and  hit  the  table  and 
lifted  his  face  again,  crying:  "I  saw  Dennis  Hogan  walk 
up  to  Death  smiling  that  Irish  smile.  I  saw  him  standing 
with  a  ton  of  loose  dirt  hanging  over  him  while  he  was  dig 
ging  me  out!  I  saw  Evan  Davis — little,  bow-legged  Evan 
Davis — go  out  into  the  smoke  alone — alone,  Mr.  Dexter,  and 
they  say  Evan  is  a  coward — he  went  out  alone  and  brought 
back  Casper  Herclicker's  limp  body  hugged  to  his  little 
Welsh  breast  like  a  gorilla's — and  saved  a  man.  I  saw  Dick 
Bowman  do  more — when  the  dirt  was  dropping  from  the 
slipping,  working  roof  into  my  mouth  and  eyes,  and  might 
have  come  down  in  a  slide — I  lay  there  and  watched  Dick 
working  to  save  me  and  I  heard  him  order  his  son  to  hold 
a  shovel  over  my  face — his  own  boy."  Grant  shuddered 
and  drew  the  child  closer  to  him,  and  looked  at  the  group 
near  him  with  wet  eyes.  "Ira  Dooley  and  Tom  Williams 
and  that  little  Italian  went  on  their  bellies,  half  dead 
from  the  smoke,  out  into  death  and  brought  home  three 
men  to  safety,  and  would  have  died  without  batting  an 
eye — all  three  to  save  one  lost  man  in  that  passage."  He 
beat  the  table  again  with  his  fist  and  cried  wildly:  "I 
tell  you  that's  the  Holy  Ghost.  I  know  those  men  may 
sometimes  trick  the  company  if  they  can.  I  know  Ira 
Dooley  spends  lots  of  good  money  on  'the  row';  I  know 
Tom  gambles  off  everything  he  can  get  his  hands  on,  and 
that  the  little  Dago  probably  would  have  stuck  a  knife  in  an 
enemy  over  a  quarter.  But  that  doesn't  count." 

The  young  man's  voice  rose  again.     "That   is  circum- 


182  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

stance ;  much  of  it  is  surroundings,  either  of  birth  or  of  this 
damned  place  where  we  are  living.  If  they  cheat  the  com 
pany,  it  is  because  the  company  dares  them  to  cheat  and 
cheats  them  badly.  If  they  steal,  it  is  because  they  have 
been  taught  to  steal  by  the  example  of  big,  successful  thieves. 
I've  had  time  to  think  it  all  out. 

' '  Father — father ! ' '  cried  Grant,  as  a  new  wave  of  emotion 
surged  in  from  the  outer  bourne  of  his  soul,  "you  once  said 
Dick  Bowman  sold  out  the  town  and  took  money  for  voting 
for  the  Harvey  Improvement  bond  steal.  But  what  if  he 
did?  That  was  merely  circumstance.  Dick  is  a  little  man 
who  has  had  to  fight  for  money  all  his  life — just  enough 
money  to  feed  his  hungry  children.  And  here  came  an  op 
portunity  to  get  hold  of — what  was  it? — a  hundred  dol 
lars — "  Amos  Adams  nodded.  "Well,  then,  a  hundred 
dollars,  and  it  would  buy  so  much,  and  leading  citizens  came 
and  told  him  it  was  all  right — men  we  have  educated  with 
our  taxes  and  our  surplus  money  in  universities  and  colleges. 
And  we  haven't  educated  Dick;  we've  just  taught  him  to 
fight — to  fight  for  money,  and  to  think  money  will  do  every 
thing  in  God's  beautiful  world.  So  Dick  took  it.  That  was 
the  Dick  that  man  and  Harvey  and  America  made,  father, 
but  I  saw  the  Dick  that  God  made ! "  He  stopped  and  cried 
out  passionately,  "And  some  day,  some  day  all  the  world 
must  know  this  man — this  great-souled,  common  American — 
that  God  made!" 

Grant's  voice  was  low,  but  a  thousand  impulses  struggled 
across  his  features  for  voice  and  his  eyes  were  infinitely  sad 
as  he  gazed  at  the  curly,  brown  hair  of  the  child  in  his  arms 
playing  with  the  buttons  on  his  coat. 

The  minister  looked  at  his  wife.  She  was  wet-faced  and 
atremble,  and  had  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  Amos  Adams's 
old,  frank  face  was  troubled.  The  son  turned  upon  him  and 
cried : 

"Father — you're  right  when  you  say  character  makes  hap 
piness.  But  what  do  you  call  it — surroundings — where  you 
live  and  how  you  live  and  what  you  do  for  a  living — environ 
ment!  That's  it,  that's  the  word — environment  has  lots  and 
lots  to  do  with  character.  Let  the  company  reduce  its  divi 
dends  by  giving  the  men  a  chance  at  decent  living  conditions, 


SOME  POSSIBLE  GODS  183 

in  decent  houses  and  decent  streets,  and  you  '11  have  another 
sort  of  attitude  toward  the  company.  Quit  cheating  them  at 
the  store,  and  you'll  have  more  honesty  in  the  mines;  quit 
sprinkling  sour  beer  and  whiskey  on  the  sawdust  in  front  of 
the  saloons  to  coax  men  in  who  have  an  appetite,  and  you  '11 
have  less  drinking — but,  of  course,  Sands  will  have  less 
rents.  Let  the  company  obey  the  law — the  company  run  by 
men  who  are  pointed  out  as  examples,  and  there'll  be  less 
lawlessness  among  the  men  when  trouble  comes.  Why,  Mr. 
Dexter,  do  you  know  as  we  sat  down  there  in  the  dark,  we 
counted  up  five  laws  which  the  company  broke,  any  one  of 
which  would  have  prevented  the  fire,  and  would  have  saved 
ninety  lives.  Trash  in  the  passage  leading  to  the  main  shaft 
delayed  notifying  the  men  five  minutes — that's  against  the 
law.  Torches  leaking  in  the  passageway  where  there  should 
have  been  electric  lights — that's  against  the  law.  Boys — 
little  ten-year-olds  working  down  there — cheap,  cheap!"  he 
cried,  "and  dumping  that  pine  lumber  under  a  dripping- 
torch — that's  against  the  law.  Having  no  fire  drill,  and 
rusty  water  plugs  and  hose  that  doesn't  reach — that's  against 
the  law.  A  pine  partition  in  an  air-chute  using  it  as  a  shaft 
— that's  against  the  law.  Yet  when  trouble  comes  and  these 
men  burn  and  kill  and  plunder — we'll  put  the  miners  in  jail, 
and  maybe  hang  them,  for  doing  as  they  are  taught  a  thou 
sand  times  a  week  by  the  company — risking  life  for  their 
own  gain ! ' ' 

Grant  Adams  rose.  He  ran  his  great,  strong,  copper- 
freckled  hands  through  his  fiery  hair  and  stood  with  face 
transfigured,  as  the  face  of  one  staring  at  some  phantasm. 
"Oh,  those  men — they  risked  their  lives — Chopini  and  Cas 
per  Herdicker  gave  their  lives  for  me.  Father,"  he  cried, 
"I  am  bought  with  a  price.  These  men  risked  all  and  gave 
all  for  me.  I  am  theirs.  I  have  no  other  right  to  live  except 
as  I  serve  them."  He  drew  a  deep  breath;  set  his  jaw  and 
spoke  with  all  the  force  he  could  put  into  a  quiet  voice :  "I 
am  dedicated  to  men — to  those  great-soul ed,  brave,  kind  men 
whom  God  has  sent  here  for  man  to  dwarf  and  ruin.  They 
have  bought  me.  I  am  theirs." 

The  minister  put  the  question  in  their  minds: 

1 1  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Grant  ? ' ' 


184  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  fervor  that  had  been  dying  down  returned  to  Grant 
Adams's  face. 

"My  job,"  he  cried,  "is  so  big  I  don't  know  where  to  take 
hold.  But  I'm  not  going  to  bother  to  tell  those  men  who 
sweat  and  stink  and  suffer  under  the  injustices  of  men,  about 
the  justice  of  God.  I've  got  one  thing  in  me  bigger 'n  a  wolf 
— it's  this:  House  them — feed  them,  clothe  them,  work  them 
— these  working  people — and  pay  them  as  you  people  of  the 
middle  classes  are  housed  and  fed  and  paid  and  clad,  arid 
crime  won't  be  the  recreation  of  poverty.  And  the  Lord 
knows  the  work  of  the  men  who  toil  with  their  hands  is  just 
as  valuable  to  society  as  preaching  and  trading  and  buying 
and  selling  and  banking  and  editing  and  lawing  and  doctor 
ing,  and  insuring  and  school  teaching. ' ' 

He  stood  before  the  kitchen  stove,  a  tall,  awkward,  bony, 
wide-shouldered,  loose-wired  creature  in  the  first  raw  stage 
of  full-blown  manhood.  The  red  muscles  of  his  jaw  worked 
as  his  emotions  rose  in  him.  His  hands  were  the  hands  of 
a  fanatic — never  still. 

"I've  been  down  into  death  and  I've  found  something 
about  life,"  he  went  on.  "Out  of  the  world's  gross  earn 
ings  we're  paying  too  much  for  superintendence,  and  rent  and 
machines,  and  not  enough  for  labor.  There's  got  to  be  a 
new  shake-up.  And  I'm  going  to  help.  I  don't  know  where 
nor  how  to  begin,  but  some  way  I'll  find  a  hold  and  I'm 
going  to  take  it. ' ' 

He  drew  in  a  long  breath,  looked  around  and  smiled  rather 
a  ragged,  ugly  smile  that  showed  his  big  teeth,  all  white  and 
strong  but  uneven. 

"Well,  Grant/  said  Mrs.  Dexter,  "you  have  cut  out  a  big 
job  for  yourself."  The  young  man  nodded  soberly. 

"Well,  we're  going  to  organize  'em,  the  first  thing.  We 
talked  that  over  in  the  mine  when  we  had  nothing  else  to 
talk  about — but  God  and  our  babies." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  Amos  Adams  said:  "While 
you  were  down  there  of  course  I  had  to  do  something.  So 
after  the  paper  was  out,  I  got  to  talking  with  Lincoln  about 
things.  He  said  you'd  get  out.  Though,"  smiled  the  old 
man  sheepishly  and  wagged  his  beard,  "Darwin  didn't  think 


SOME  POSSIBLE  GODS  185 

you  would.  But  anyway,  they  all  agreed  we  should  do 
something  for  the  widows." 

''They  have  a  subscription  paper  at  George  Brotherton's 
store — you  know,  Grant,"  said  Mr.  Dexter. 

"Well — we  ought  to  put  in  something,  father, — all 
we've  got,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  tried  and  tried  to  get  her  last  night  to  know  how  she 
felt  about  it,"  mused  Amos.  "I've  borrowed  all  I  can  on 
the  office — and  it  wouldn't  sell  for  its  debts." 

"You  ought  to  keep  your  home,  I  think,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Dexter  quickly,  who  had  her  husband's  approving  nod. 

"They  told  me,"  said  the  father,  "that  M'ary  didn't  feel 
that  way  about  it.  I  couldn't  get  her.  But  that  was  the 
word  she  sent. ' ' 

"Father,"  said  Grant  with  the  glow  in  his  face  that  had 
died  for  a  minute,  "let's  take  the  chance.  Let's  check  it  up 
to  God  good  and  hard.  Let's  sell  the  house  and  give  it  all 
to  those  who  have  lost  more  than  we.  We  can  earn  the  rent, 
anyway." 

Mrs.  Dexter  looked  significantly  at  Kenyon. 

"No,  that  shouldn't  count,  either,"  said  Grant  stubbornly. 
"Dick  Bowman  didn't  let  his  boy  count  when  I  needed  help, 
and  when  hundreds  of  orphaned  boys  and  girls  and  widows 
need  our  help,  we  shouldn't  hold  back  for  Kenyon." 

"Grant,"  said  the  father  when  the  visit  was  ended  and 
the  two  were  alone,  "they  say  your  father  has  no  sense — 
up  town.  Maybe  I  haven't.  I  commune  with  these  great 
minds;  maybe  they  too  are  shadows.  But  they  come  from 
outside  of  me."  He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  graying 
beard  and  smiled.  "Mr.  Left  brings  me  things  that  are 
deeper  and  wiser  than  the  things  I  know — it  seems  to  me. 
But  they  all  bear  one  testimony,  Grant;  they  all  tell  me 
that  it's  the  spiritual  things  and  not  the  material  things 
in  this  world  that  count  in  the  long  run,  and,  Grant,  boy," 
the  father  reached  for  his  son's  strong  hand,  "I  would 
rather  have  seen  the  son  that  has  come  back  to  me  from 
death,  go  back  to  death  now,  if  otherwise  I  never  could  have 
seen  him.  They  told  me  your  mother  was  with  you.  And 
now  I  know  some  way  she  touched  your  heart  out  there  in 


186  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  dark — 0  Grant,  boy,  while  you  spoke  I  saw  her  in  your 
face — in  your  face  I  saw  her.  Mary — Mary,"  cried  the 
weeping  old  man,  "when  you  sent  me  back  to  the  war  you 
looked  as  he  looked  to-day,  and  talked  so." 

"Father,"  said  Grant,  "I  don't  know  about  your  Mr. 
Left.  He  doesn  't  interest  me,  as  he  does  you,  and  as  for  the 
others — they  may  be  true  or  all  a  mockery,  for  anything  I 
know.  But,"  he  exclaimed,  "I've  seen  God  face  to  face 
and  I  can't  rest  until  I've  given  all  I  am — everything — 
everything  to  help  those  men!" 

Then  the  three  went  out  into  the  crisp  January  air- 
father  and  son  and  little  Kenyon  bundled  to  the  chin.  They 
walked  over  the  prairies  under  the  sunshine  and  talked  to 
gether  through  the  short  winter  afternoon.  At  its  close 
they  were  in  the  timber  where  the  fallen  leaves  were  begin 
ning  to  pack  against  the  tree  trunks  and  in  the  ravines.  The 
child  listened  as  the  wind  played  upon  its  harp,  and  the 
rhythm  of  the  rising  and  falling  tide  of  harmony  set  his 
heart  a-flutter,  and  he  squeezed  his  father's  fingers  with  de 
light.  A  redbird  flashing  through  the  gray  and  brown  pic 
ture  gave  him  joy,  and  when  it  sang  far  down  the  ravine 
where  the  wind  organ  seemed  to  be,  the  child 's  eyes  brimmed 
and  he  dropped  behind  the  elders  a  few  paces  to  listen  and 
be  alone  with  his  ecstasy.  And  so  in  the  fading  day  they 
walked  home.  The  quail  piped  for  the  child,  and  the  prairie 
chicken  pounded  his  drum,  and  in  the  prairie  grass  the  slant 
ing  sun  painted  upon  the  ripples  across  the  distant,  rolling 
hills  many  pictures  that  filled  the  child's  heart  so  full  that 
he  was  still,  as  one  who  is  awed  with  a  great  vision.  And  it 
was  a  great  vision  that  filled  his  soul :  the  sunset  with  its 
splendors,  the  twilight  hovering  in  the  brown  woods,  the 
prairie  a-quiver  with  the  caresses  of  the  wind,  winter-birds 
throbbing  life  and  ecstasy  into  the  picture,  and  above  and 
around  it  all  a  great,  warm,  father's  heart  symbolizing  the 
loving  kindness  of  the  infinite  to  the  child's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OUR  HERO   RIDES   TO   HOUNDS   WITH   THE  PRIMROSE   HUNT 

GOING  home  from  the  Adamses  that  afternoon,  John 
Dexter  mused:  "Curious — very  curious."  Then 
he  added:  "Of  course  this  phase  will  pass.  Prob 
ably  it  is  gone  now.  But  I  am  wondering  how  fundamental 
this  state  of  mind  is,  if  it  will  not  appear  again — at  some 
crisis  later  in  life." 

"His  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Dexter,  "was  a  strong,  beauti 
ful  woman.  She  builded  deep  and  wide  in  that  boy.  And 
his  father  is  a  wise,  earnest,  kindly  man,  even  if  he  may  be 
impractical.  Why  shouldn  't  Grant  do  all  that  he  dreams  of 
doing?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  minister  dryly.  "But  there  is  life — 
there  are  its  temptations.  He  is  of  the  emotional  type,  and 
the  wrong  woman  could  bend  him  away  from  any  purpose 
that  he  may  have  now.  Then,  suppose  he  does  get  past  the 
first  gate — the  gate  of  his  senses — there's  the  temptation  to 
be  a  fool  about  his  talents  if  he  has  any — if  this  gift  of 
tongues  we  Ve  seen  to-day  should  stay  with  him — he  may  get 
the  swelled  head.  And  then,"  he  concluded  sadly,  "at  the 
end  is  the  greatest  temptation  of  all — the  temptation  that 
comes  with  power  to  get  power  for  the  sake  of  power." 

The  next  morning  Amos  Adams  and  Grant  went  in  to 
Market  Street  to  sell  their  home.  Grant  seemed  a  stranger 
to  that  busy  mart  of  trade:  the  week  of  his  absence  had 
taken  him  so  far  from  it.  His  eyes  were  caught  by  two  tall 
figures,  a  man  and  a  woman,  walking  and  talking  as  they 
crossed  the  street — the  man  in  a  heavy,  long,  brown  ulsier, 
the  woman  in  a  flaring  red,  outer  garment.  He  recognized 
them  as  Margaret  Fenn  and  Thomas  Van  Dorn.  They  had 
met  entirely  by  chance,  and  the  meeting  was  one  of  perhaps 
half  a  dozen  chance  meetings  which  they  had  enjoyed  during 
the  winter,  and  these  meetings  were  so  entirely  pleasurable 

187 


188  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL. 

that  the  man  was  beginning  rather  vaguely  to  anticipate 
them — to  hope  for  another  meeting  after  the  last.  Grant 
was  in  an  exalted  mood  that  morning,  and  the  sight  of  the 
two  walking  together  struck  him  only  as  a  symbol  and  epit 
ome  of  all  that  he  was  going  into  the  world  to  fight — in  the 
man  intellect  without  moral  purpose,  in  the  woman  mate 
rialism,  gross  and  carnal.  The  Adamses  went  the  rounds  of 
the  real  estate  dealers  trying  to  sell  their  home,  and  in  fol 
lowing  his  vision  Grant  forgot  the  two  tall  figures  in  the 
street. 

But  the  two  figures  that  had  started  Grant's  reverie  con 
tinued  to  walk — perhaps  a  trifle  slower  than  was  the  wont 
of  either,  down  Market  Street,  They  walked  slowly  for  two 
reasons:  For  her  part,  she  wished  to  make  the  most  of  a 
parade  on  Market  Street  with  so  grand  a  person  as  the  Judge 
of  the  District  Court,  and  the  town 's  most  distinguished  citi 
zen;  and  for  his  part,  he  dawdled  because  life  was  going 
slowly  with  him  in  certain  quarters:  he  felt  the  lack  of  ad 
venture,  and  here — at  least,  she  was  a  stunning  figure  of  a 
woman !  * '  Yes, ' '  she  said, ' '  I  heard  about  them.  Henry  has 
just  told  me  that  Mr.  Brotherton  said  the  Adamses  are  going 
to  sell  their  home  and  give  it  to  the  miners '  widows.  Isn  't  it 
foolish  ?  It 's  all  they  've  got  in  the  world,  too !  Still,  really 
.nothing  is  strange  in  that  family.  You  know,  I  boarded 
with  them  one  winter  when  I  taught  the  Prospect  School. 
Henry  says  they  want  to  do  something  for  the  laboring 
people, ' '  she  added  naively. 

As  she  spoke,  the  man's  eyes  wandered  over  her  figure, 
across  her  face,  and  were  caught  by  her  eyes  that  looked  at 
him  with  something  in  them  entirely  irrelevant  to  the  subject 
that  her  lips  were  discussing.  His  eyes  caught  up  the  sug 
gestion  of  her  eyes,  and  carried  it  a  little  further,  but  he 
only  said :  * '  Yes — queer  folks — trying  to  make  a  whistle — " 

"Out  of  a  pig's  tail,"  she  laughed.  But  her  eyes  thought 
his  eyes  had  gone  just  a  little  too  far,  so  they  drooped,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

1 '  Well,  I  don 't  know  that  I  would  say  exactly  a  pig 's  tail, ' ' 
he  returned,  bracketing  his  words  with  his  most  engaging 
smile,  "but  I  should  say  out  of  highly  refractory  material." 

His  eyes  in  the  meantime  pried  up  her  eye-lids  and  asked 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  189 

what  was  wrong  with  that.  And  her  eyes  were  coy  about 
it,  and  would  not  answer  directly. 

He  went  on  speaking :  ' '  The  whole  labor  trouble,  it  seems 
to  me,  lies  in  this  whistle  trade.  A  smattering  of  education 
has  made  labor  dissatisfied.  The  laboring  people  are  trying 
to  get  out  of  their  place,  and  as  a  result  we  have  strikes  and 
lawlessness  and  disrespect  for  courts,  and  men  going  around 
and  making  trouble  in  industry  by  'doing  something  for 
labor/  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "that  is  very  true." 

But  her  eyes — her  big,  liquid,  animal  eyes  were  saying, 
1  i  How  handsome  you  are — you  man — you  great,  strong,  mas 
terful  man  with  your  brown  ulster  and  brown  hat  and  brown 
tie,  and  silken,  black  mustache. ' '  To  which  his  eyes  replied, 
"And  you — you  are  superb,  and  such  lips  and  such  teeth," 
while  what  he  trusted  to  words  was : 

"Yes — I  believe  that  the  laborer  in  the  mines,  for  in 
stance,  doesn't  care  so  much  about  what  we  would  consider 
hardship.  It's  natural  to  him.  It  would  be  hard  for  us, 
but  he  gets  used  to  it!  Now,  the  smelter  men  in  that  heat 
and  fumes — they  don't  seem  to  mind  it.  The  agonizing  is 
done  largely  by  these  red-mouthed  agitators  who  never  did 
a  lick  of  work  in  their  lives. ' ' 

Their  elbows  touched  for  a  moment  as  they  walked.  He 
drew  away  politely  and  her  eyes  said : 

"That's  all  right:  I  didn't  mind  that  a  bit."  But  her 
lips  said:  "That's  what  I  tell  Mr.  Fenn,  and,  anyway,  the 
work's  got  to  be  done  and  cultivated  people  can't  do  it.  It's 
got  to  be  done  by  the  ignorant  and  coarse  and  those  kind  of 
people." 

His  eyes  flinched  a  little  at  "those  kind"  of  people  and 
she  wondered  what  was  wrong.  But  it  was  only  for  a  mo 
ment  that  they  flinched.  Then  they  told  her  eyes  how  fine 
and  desirable  she  looked,  and  she  replied  eyewise  with  a 
droop  such  as  the  old  wolf  might  have  used  in  replying  to 
Red  Riding  Hood,  "The  better  to  eat  you,  my  child."  Then 
his  voice  spoke;  his  soft,  false,  vain,  mushy  voice,  and 
asked  casually:  "By  the  way,  speaking  of  Mr.  Fenn — how 
is  Henry?  I  don't  see  him  much  now  since  he's  quit  the 
law  and  gone  into  real  estate." 


190  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

His  eyes  asked  plainly:  Is  everything  all  right  in  that 
quarter?  Perhaps  I  might — 

"Oh,  I  guess  he's  all  right,"  arid  her  eyes  said:  That's 
so  kind  of  you,  indeed ;  perhaps  you  might — 

But  he  went  on :  "  You  ought  to  get  him  out  more — come 
over  some  night  arid  we'll  make  a  hand  at  whist.  Mrs.  Van 
Dorn  isn't  much  of  a  player,  but  like  all  poor  players,  she 
enjoys  it."  And  the  eyes  continued:  But  you  and  I  will 
have  a  fine  time — now  please  come — soon — very  soon. 

"Yes,  indeed — I  don't  play  so  well,  but  we'll  come,"  and 
the  eyes  answered:  That  is  a  fair  promise,  and  I'll  be  so 
happy.  Then  they  flashed  quickly:  But  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
must  arrange  it.  He  replied:  "I'll  tell  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
you  like  whist,  and  she  and  you  can  arrange  the  eve 
ning." 

Then  they  parted.  He  walked  into  the  post  office,  and  she 
walked  on  to  the  AVright  &  Perry  store.  But  instead  of  re 
turning  to  his  office,  he  lounged  into  Mr.  Brotherton's  and 
sat  on  a  bench  in  the  Amen  Corner,  biting  a  cigar,  waiting 
for  traffic  to  clear  out.  Then  he  said:  "George,  how  is 
Henry  Fenn  doing — really?" 

His  soft,  brown  hat  was  tipped  over  his  eyes  and  his 
ulster,  unbuttoned,  displayed  his  fine  figure,  and  he  was 
clearly  proud  of  it.  Brotherton  hesitated  while  he  invoiced 
a  row  of  books. 

"Old  trouble?"  prompted  Judge  Van  Dorn. 

"Old  trouble,"  echoed  Mr.  Brotherton — "about  every 
three  months  since  he's  been  married;  something  terrible  the 
last  time.  But  say — there's  a  man  that's  sorry  afterwards, 
and  what  he  doesn't  buy  for  her  after  a  round  with  the  joy- 
water  isn't  worth  talking  about.  So  far,  he's  been  able  to 
square  her  that  way — I  take  it.  But  say — that'll  wear  off, 
and  then—  Mr.  Brotherton  winked  a  large,  mournful, 
devilish  wink  as  one  who  was  hanging  out  a  storm  flag. 
Judge  Van  Dorn  twirled  his  mustache,  patted  his  necktie, 
jostled  his  hat  and  smiled,  waiting  for  further  details. 
Instead,  he  faced  a  question: 

"Why  did  Henry  quit  the  law  for  real  estate,  Judge — 
the  old  trouble?" 

Judge  Van  Dorn  echoed,  and  added :     ' '  Folks  pretty  gen- 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  191 

erally  know  about  it,  and  they  don 't  trust  their  law  business 
in  that  kind  of  hands.  Poor  Henry — poor  devil, "  sighed 
the  young  Judge,  and  then  said:  "By  the  way,  George, 
send  up  a  box  of  cigars — the  kind  old  Henry  likes  best,  to 
my  house.  I'm  going  to  have  him  and  the  missus  over  some 
evening." 

Mr.  Brotherton 's  large  back  was  turned  when  the  last 
phrase  was  uttered,  and  Mr.  Brotherton  made  a  little  signifi 
cant  face  at  his  shelves,  and  the  thought  occurred  to  Mr. 
Brotherton  that  Henry  Fenn  was  not  the  only  man  whom 
people  pretty  generally  knew  about.  After  some  further 
talk  about  Fenn  and  his  affairs,  Van  Dorn  primped  a  moment 
before  the  mirror  in  the  cigar  cutter  and  started  for  the 
door. 

"By  the  by,  your  honor,  I  forgot  about  the  Mayor's 
miners'  relief  fund.  How  is  it  now?"  asked  Van  Dorn. 

"Something  past  ten  thousand  here  in  the  county." 

"Any  one  beat  my  subscription?"  asked  Van  Dorn. 

Brotherton  turned  around  and  replied:  "Yes — Amos 
Adams  was  in  here  five  minutes  ago.  He  has  mortgaged  his 
place  and  so  long  as  he  and  Grant  can't  find  kith  or  kin  of 
Chopini,  and  Mrs.  Herdicker  would  take  nothing — Amos 
has  put  $1,500  into  the  fund.  Done  it  just  now — him  and 
Grant," 

The  Judge  took  the  paper,  looked  at  the  scrawl  of  the 
Adamses,  and  scratching  out  his  subscription,  put  two  thou 
sand  where  there  had  been  one  thousand.  He  showed  it  to 
Brotherton,  and  added  with  a  smile : 

"Who'll  call  that— I  wonder." 

And  wrapping  his  ulster  about  him  and  cocking  his  hat 
rakishly,  he  went  with  some  pride  into  the  street.  He  was 
thirty-four  years  old  and  was  accounted  as  men  go  a  hand 
some  dog,  with  a  figure  just  turning  from  the  litheness  of 
youth  into  a  slight  rotundity  of  very  early  middle  age.  He 
carried  his  shoulders  well,  walked  with  a  firm,  straight  gait — 
perhaps  a  little  too  much  upon  his  toes  for  candor,  but,  with 
all,  he  was  a  well-groomed  animal  and  he  knew  it.  So  he 
passed  Margaret  Fenn  again  on  the  street,  lifted  his  hat, 
hunted  for  her  eyes,  gave  them  all  the  voltage  he  had,  and 
the  smile  that  he  shot  at  her  was  left  over  on  his  face  for 


192  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

half  a  block  down  the  street.  People  passing  him  smiled 
back  and  said  to  one  another : 

4 'What  a  fine,  good-natured,  big-hearted  fellow  Tom  Van 
Dorn  is!" 

And  Mr.  Van  Dorn,  not  oblivious  to  the  impression  he  was 
making,  smiled  and  bowed  and  bowed  and  smiled,  and  bel 
lowed  Dick,  and  howareyoued  Hiram,  and  goodmorninged 
John,  down  the  street,  into  his  office.  There  he  found  his 
former  partner  busy  with  a  laudable  plan  of  defending  a 
client.  His  client  happened  to  be  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Company, 
which  was  being  assailed  by  the  surviving  relatives  of  some 
thing  like  one  hundred  dead  men.  So  Mr.  Calvin  was  pre 
paring  to  show  that  in  entering  the  mine  they  had  assumed 
the  ordinary  risks  of  mining,  and  that  the  neglect  of  their 
fellow  servants  was  one  of  those  ordinary  risks.  And  as  for 
the  boy  ten  years  old  being  employed  in  the  mines  contrary 
to  law,  there  were  some  details  of  a  trip  to  Austria  for  that 
boy  and  his  parents,  that  had  to  be  arranged  with  the  steam 
ship  company  by  wire  that  very  morning.  The  Judge  sat 
reading  the  law,  oblivious — judicially — to  what  was  going 
on,  and  Joseph  Calvin  fell  to  work  with  a  will.  But  what 
the  young  Judge,  who  could  ignore  Mr.  Calvin's  activities, 
could  not  help  taking  judicial  notice  of  in  spite  of  his  law 
books,  were  those  eyes  out  there  on  the  street.  They  were 
indeed  beautiful  eyes  and  they  said  so  much,  and  yet  left 
much  to  the  imagination — and  the  imagination  of  Judge  Van 
Dorn  was  exceedingly  nimble  in  those  little  matters,  and  in 
many  other  matters  besides.  Indeed,  so  nimble  was  his 
imagination  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  fact  that  at  Judge 
Van  Dorn's  own  extra-judicial  suggestion,  every  lawyer  in 
town,  excepting  Henry  Fenn,  who  had  retired  from  the  law 
practice,  had  been  retained  by  the  Company  an  hour  after 
the  accident,  no  one  knows  how  many  holes  might  have  been 
found  in  Mr.  Joseph  Calvin's  unaided  brief. 

As  the  young  Judge  sat  poring  over  his  law  book,  Captain 
Morton  came  in  and  after  the  Captain's  usual  circumlocution 
he  said : 

"What  I  really  wanted  to  know,  Judge,  was  about  a 
charter.  I  want  to  start  a  company.  So  I  says  to  my 
self,  Judge  Tom,  he  can  just  about  start  me  right.  He'll 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  193 

get  my  company  going — what  say?"  Answering  the 
Judge's  question  about  the  nature  of  the  company,  the  Cap 
tain  explained :  ' '  You  see,  I  had  the  agency  for  the  Waverly 
bicycle  here  a  while  back,  and  I  got  one  of  their  wheels  and 
was  fooling  with  it  like  a  fellow  will  on  a  wet  day — what 
say?"  He  smiled  up  at  the  Judge  a  self-deprecatory  smile, 
as  if  to  ask  him  not  to  mind  his  foolishness  but  to  listen  to  his 
story.  "And  when  I  got  the  blame  thing  apart,  she  wouldn't 
go  together — eh?  So  I  had  to  kind  of  give  up  the  agency, 
and  I  took  a  churn  that  was  filling  a  long-felt  want  just 
then.  Churns  is  always  my  specialty  and  I  forgot  all  about 
the  bicycle — just  like  a  fellow  will — eh?  But  here  a  while 
back  I  wanted  to  rig  up  a  gearing  for  the  churn  and  so  I 
took  down  the  wreck  of  the  old  wheel,  and  dubbing  around 
I  worked  out  a  ball-bearing  sprocket  joint — say,  man,  she 
runs  just  like  a  feather.  And  now  what  I  want  is  a  patent 
for  the  sprocket  and  a  charter  for  the  company  to  put  it  on 
the  market.  Henry  Fenn's  going  to  the  capital  for  me  to 
fix  up  the  charter;  and  then  whoopee — the  old  man's  coming 
along,  eh  ?  When  I  get  that  thing  on  the  market,  you  watch 
out  for  me — what  say?" 

The  eyes  of  Margaret  Fenn  danced  around  the  Captain's 
sprocket.  So  the  Judge,  thinking  to  get  rid  of  the  Captain 
and  oblige  the  Fenns  with  one  stroke,  sent  the  Captain  away 
with  twenty-five  dollars  to  pay  Henry  Fenn  for  getting  the 
patent  for  the  sprocket  and  securing  the  charter  for  the 
company. 

As  the  Captain  left  the  office  of  the  Judge  he  greeted  Mrs. 
Van  Dorn  with  an  elaborate  bow. 

And  now  enter  Laura  Van  Dorn.  And  she  is  beautiful, 
too — with  candid,  wide-open  gray  eyes.  Maturity  has  hardly 
reached  her,  but  through  the  beauty  of  line  and  color,  char 
acter  is  showing  itself  in  every  feature;  Satterthwaite  and 
Nesbit,  force  and  sentiment  are  struggling  upon  her  fea 
tures  for  mastery.  The  January  air  has  flushed  her  face 
and  her  frank,  honest  eyes  glow  happily.  But  when  one 
belongs  to  the  ancient,  though  scarcely  Honorable  Primrose 
Hunt,  and  rides  forever  to  the  hounds  down  the  path  of 
dalliance,  one's  wife  of  four  years  is  rather  stale  sport. 
One  does  not  pry  up  her  eyelashes;  they  have  been  pried; 


194  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

nor  does  one  hold  dialogues  with  her  under  the  words  of 
conventional  speech.  The  rules  of  the  Hunt  require  one  to 
look  up  at  one's  wife — chiefly  to  find  out  what  she  is  after 
and  to  wonder  how  long  she  will  inflict  herself.  And  when 
one  is  hearing  afar  the  cry  of  the  pack,  no  true  sportsman 
is  diverted  from  the  chase  by  ruddy,  wifely  cheeks,  and 
beaming,  wifely  eyes,  and  an  eager,  wifely  heart.  So  when 
Laura  his  wife  came  into  the  office  of  the  young  Judge  she 
found  his  heart  out  with  the  Primrose  Hunt  and  only  his 
handsome  figure  and  his  judicial  mind  accessible  to  her. 
"Oh,  Torn,"  she  cried,  "have  you  heard  about  the 
Adamses?"  The  young  Judge  looked  up,  smiled,  adjusted 
his  judicial  mind,  and  answered  without  emotion:  "Rather 
foolish,  don't  you  think?" 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  foolish,  but  you  know  it's  splendid  as 
well  as  I.  Giving  up  everything  they  had  on  earth  to 
soften  the  horror  in  South  Harvey — I'm  so  proud  of  them!" 

"Well,"  he  replied,  still  keeping  his  chair,  and  letting  his 
wife  find  a  chair  for  herself,  "you  might  work  up  a  little 
pride  for  your  husband  while  you're  at  it.  I  gave  two 
thousand.  They  only  gave  fifteen  hundred." 

"Well — you're  a  dear,  too."  She  touched  him  with  a 
caressing  hand.  "But  you  could  afford  it.  It  means  for 
you  only  the  profits  on  one  real  estate  deal  or  one  case  of 
Joe  Calvin's  in  the  Federal  Court,  where  you  can  still  divide 
the  fees.  But,  Tom — the  Adamses  have  given  themselves — 
all  they  have — themselves.  It's  a  very  inspiring  thing;  I 
feel  that  it  must  affect  men  in  this  town  to  see  that  splendid 
faith." 

"Laura,"  he  answered  testily,  "why  do  you  still  keep  up 
that  foolish  enthusiasm  for  perfectly  unreasonable  things? 
There  was  no  sense  in  the  Adamses  giving  that  way.  It  was 
a  foolish  thing  to  do,  when  the  old  man  is  practically  on  the 
town.  His  paper  is  a  joke.  Sooner  or  later  we  will'all  have 
to  make  up  this  gift  a  dollar  at  a  time  and  take  care  of  him." 

He  turned  to  his  law  book.  "Besides,  if  you  come  to  that 
— it's  money  that  talks  and  if  you  want  to  get  excited,  get 
excited  over  my  two  thousand.  It  will  do  more  good  than 
their  fifteen  hundred — at  least  five  hundred  dollars  more. 
And  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  195 

Her  face  twitched  with  pain.  Then  from  some  depths  of 
her  soul  she  hailed  him  impulsively: 

"Tom,  1  don't  believe  that,  and  I  don't  believe  you  do, 
either — it  isn't  the  good  the  money  does  those  who  receive; 
it's  the  good  it  does  the  giver.  And  the  good  it  does  the 
giver  is  measured  by  the  amount  of  sacrifice — the  degree  of 
himself  that  he  puts  into  it — can't  you  understand,  Tom? 
I'd  give  my  soul  if  you  could  understand." 

"Well,  I  can't  understand,  Laura,"  impatiently;  "that's 
your  father's  sentimental  side.  Of  all  the  fool  things,"  the 
Judge  slapped  the  book  sheet  viciously,  "that  the  old  man 
has  put  into  your  head — sentiment  is  one  of  the  foolest.  I 
tell  you,  Laura,  money  talks.  There  are  ten  languages 
spoken  in  South  Harvey,  and  money  talks  in  all  of  them, 
and  one  dollar  does  as  much  as  another,  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

She  rose  with  a  little  sigh.  "Well,"  she  said  gently,  "we 
won't  quarrel."  The  wife  looked  intently  at  the  husband, 
and  in  that  flash  of  time  from  beneath  her  consciousness 
came  renewed  strength.  Something  primeval — the  eternal 
uxorial  upon  which  her  whole  life  rested,  possessed  her  and 
she  smiled,  and  touched  her  husband's  thick,  black  hair 
gently.  For  she  felt  that  if  the  spiritual  ties  for  the  mo 
ment  had  failed  them,  she  must  pick  up  some  other  tie.  She 
was  the  nest  builder  indomitable.  If  the  golden  thread 
should  drop — there  is  the  string — the  straw — the  horse  hair 
— the  twig.  So  Laura  Van  Dorn  picked  up  an  appeal  to  her 
husband's  affections  and  continued  her  predestined  work. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  with  her  smile  still  on  her  face,  "what 
I  really  and  truly  wanted  to  tell  you  was  about  Lila."  The 
mention  of  the  child's  name  brought  quick  light  to  the  moth 
er's  face.  "Lila — think  of  it,  Tom — Lila,"  the  mother  re 
peated  with  vast  pride.  "You  must  come  right  out  and  see 
her.  About  an  hour  ago,  she  sat  gazing  at  your  picture  on 
my  dresser,  and  suddenly  without  a  word  from  me,  she  whis 
pered  'Daddy,'  and  then  was  as  shy  for  a  moment,  then 
whispered  it  again,  and  then  spoke  it  out  loud,  and  she  is  as 
proud  as  Punch,  and  keeps  saying  it  over  and  over !  Tom — 
you  must  come  out  and  hear  it." 

Perhaps  it  was  a  knotty  point  of  law  that  held  his  mind, 


196  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

or  perhaps  it  was  the  old  beat  of  the  hoofs  on  the  turf  of 
the  Primrose  Hunt  that  filled  his  ears,  or  the  red  coat  of  the 
fox  that  filled  his  eyes. 

He  smiled  graciously  and  replied  absently:  "Well — 
Daddy — "  And  repeated  "Daddy — don't  you  think  fa 
ther  is — "  He  caught  the  cloud  flashing  across  her  face, 
and  went  on:  "Oh,  I  suppose  daddy  is  all  right  to  begin 
with."  He  picked  up  his  law  book  and  the  woman  drew 
nearer  to  him.  She  put  her  hand  over  the  page  and 
coaxed : 

"Come  on,  Tom — just  for  a  little  minute — come  on  out 
and  see  her.  I  know  she  is  waiting  for  you — I  know  she  is 
just  dying  to  show  off  to  you — and  besides,  the  new  rugs 
have  come  for  the  living-room,  and  I  just  couldn't  unpack 
them  without  you.  It  would  seem  so — old — old — old  mar- 
riedy,  and  we  aren't  going  to  be  that."  She  laughed  and 
tried  to  close  the  law  book. 

Their  eyes  met  and  she  thought  for  a  moment  that  she  was 
winning  her  contest.  But  he  put  her  hand  aside  gently  and 
answered :  ' '  Now,  Laura,  I  'm  busy,  exceedingly  busy.  This 
mine  accident  is  bound  to  come  before  me  in  one  form  or 
another  soon,  and  I  must  be  ready  for  it,  arid  it  is  a  serious 
matter.  There  will  be  all  kinds  of  attacks  upon  the  prop 
erty." 

"The  property?"  she  asked,  and  he  answered: 

"Why,  yes — legal  attacks  upon  the  mine — to  bleed  the 
owners,  and  I  must  be  ready  to  guard  them  against  these 
assaults,  and  I  just  can't  jump  and  run  every  time  Lila  coos 
or  you  cut  a  string  on  a  package.  I'll  be  out  to-night  and 
we'll  hear  Lila  arid  look  at  the  rugs."  To  the  disappoint 
ment  upon  her  face  he  replied:  "I  tell  you,  Laura,  senti 
ment  is  going  to  wreck  your  life  if  you  don't  check  it." 

The  man  looked  into  his  book  without  reading.  He  had 
come  to  dislike  these  little  scenes  with  his  wife.  He  looked 
from  his  book  out  of  the  window,  into  the  snowy  street.  He 
remembered  his  morning  walk.  There  was  no  talk  of  souls 
in  those  eyes,  no  hint  of  higher  things  from  those  lips,  no 
covert  taunt  of  superiority  in  that  face. 

Laura  did  not  wince.  But  her  eyes1  filled  and  her  voice 
was  husky  as  she  spoke:  "Tom,  I  want  your  soul  again — 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  197 

the  one  that  used  to  speak  to  me  in  the  old  days."  She  bent 
over  him,  and  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  and  there  she 
left  him,  still  looking  into  the  street. 

That  evening  at  sunset,  Judge  Van  Dorn,  with  his  ulster 
thrown  back  to  show  his  tine  figure,  walked  in  his  character 
of  town  Prince  homeward  up  the  avenue.  His  face  was 
amiable;  he  was  gracious  to  every  one.  He  spoke  to  rich 
and  poor  alike,  as  was  his  wont.  As  he  turned  into  his 
home  yard,  he  waved  at  a  little  face  in  the  window.  In 
the  house  he  was  the  spirit  of  good  nature  itself.  He  was 
full  of  quips  and  pleasantries  and  happy  turns  of  speech. 
But  Laura  Van  Dora  had  learned  deep  in  her  heart  to  fear 
that  mood.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  wisdom — degraded  by 
her  doubt,  and  she  fought  with  it. 

And  yet  a  man  and  a  woman  do  not  live  together  as  man 
and  wife  and  parents  without  learning  much  that  does  not 
come  from  speech  and  is  not  put  into  formulated  conviction. 
The  signs  were  all  for  trouble,  and  in  the  secret  places  of  her 
heart  she  knew  these  signs. 

She  knew  that  this  grand  manner,  this  expansive  mood, 
this  keying  up  of  attentions  to  her  were  the  beginnings  of 
a  sad  and  sordid  story — a  story  that  she  did  not  entirely 
understand;  would  not  entirely  translate,  but  a  story  that 
sickened  her  very  soul.  To  keep  the  table  talk  going,  she 
said:  "Tom,  it's  wonderful  the  way  Kenyon  is  taking  to 
the  violin.  He  has  a  real  gift,  I  believe." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  husband  absently,  and  then  as  one 
who  would  plunge  ahead,  began:  "By  the  by — why  don't 
you  have  your  father  and  mother  and  some  of  the  neighbors 
over  to  play  cards  some  evening — and  what's  the  matter 
with  the  Fenns?  Henry's  kind  of  down  on  his  luck,  and 
I'll  need  him  in  my  next  campaign,  and  I  thought  if  we 
could  have  them  over  some  evening — well,  what's  the  matter 
with  to-morrow  evening?  They'd  enjoy  it.  You  know  Mrs. 
Fenn — I  saw  her  down  town  this  morning,  and  George 
Brotherton  says  Henry's  slipping  back  to  his  old  ways. 
And  I  just  thought  perhaps — " 

But  she  knew  as  well  as  he  what  he  "thought  perhaps," 
and  a  cloud  trailed  over  her  face. 

When  Thomas  Van  Dorn  left  his  home  that  night,  striding 


198  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

into  the  lights  of  Market  Street,  his  heart  was  hot  with  the 
glowing  coals  of  an  old  wrong  revived.  For  to  Judge  Van 
Dorn,  home  had  become  a  trap,  and  the  glorious  eyes  that 
had  beamed  upon  him  in  the  morning  seemed  beacons  of 
liberty. 

As  gradually  those  eyes  became  fixed  in  his  consciousness, 
through  days  and  weeks  and  months,  a  mounting  passion  for 
Margaret  Fenn  kindled  in  his  heart.  And  slowly  he  went 
stone-blind  mad.  The  whole  of  his  world  was  turned  over. 
Every  ambition,  every  hope,  every  desire  he  ever  had  known 
was  burned  out  before  this  passion  that  was  too  deep  for 
desire.  Whatever  lust  was  in  his  blood  in  those  first  months 
of  his  madness  grew  pale.  It  seemed  to  the  man  who  went 
stalking  down  the  street  past  her  house  night  after  night 
that  the  one  great,  unselfish  passion  of  his  life  was  upon 
him,  loosening  the  roots  of  his  being,  so  that  any  sacrifice 
he  could  make,  whether  of  himself  or  of  any  one  or  any 
thing  about  him,  would  give  him  infinite  joy.  When  he  met 
Henry  Fenn,  Van  Dorn.  was  always  tempted  and  often 
yielded  to  the  temptation  to  rush  up  to  Fenn  with  some 
foolish  question  that  made  the  sad-eyed  man  stare  and  won 
der.  But  just  to  be  that  near  to  her  for  the  moment  pleased 
him.  There  was  no  jealousy  for  Fenn  in  Van  Dora's  heart; 
there  was  only  a  dog-like  infatuation  that  had  swept  him 
away  from  his  reason  and  seated  a  fatuous,  chattering,  impo 
tent,  lecherous  ape  where  his  intellect  should  have  been. 
And  he  knew  he  was  a  fool.  He  knew  that  he  was  stark 
mad.  Yet  what  he  did  not  know  was  that  this  madness 
was  a  culmination,  not  a  pristine  passion  new  born  in  his 
heart.  For  the  maggot  in  his  brain  had  eaten  out  a  rotten 
place  wherein  was  the  memory  of  many  women's  yieldings, 
of  many  women's  tears.  One  side  of  his  brain  worked  with 
rare  cunning.  He  wound  the  evidence  against  the  men  in 
the  mine,  taken  at  the  coroner's  hearing,  through  the  laby 
rinth  of  the  law,  and  snared  them  tightly  in  it.  That  part 
of  his  brain  clicked  with  automatic  precision.  But  sitting 
beside  him  was  the  ape,  grinning,  leering,  ready  to  rise  and 
master  him.  So  many  a  night  when  he  was  weary,  he  lay 
on  the  couch  beside  his  desk,  and  the  ape  came  and  howled 
him  to  a  troubled  sleep. 


OUR  HERO  RIDES  TO  HOUNDS  199 

But  while  Judge  Van  Dorn  tried  to  fight  his  devil  away 
with  his  law  book,  down  in  South  Harvey  death  still  lin 
gered.  Death  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  often  vaunts 
himself  of  his  democracy.  Yet  it  is  a  sham  democracy.  In 
Harvey,  when  death  taps  on  a  door  and  enters  the  house,  he 
brings  sorrow.  But  in  South  Harvey  when  he  crosses  a 
threshold  he  brings  sorrow  and  want.  And  what  a  vast 
difference  lies  between  sorrow,  and  sorrow  with  want.  For 
sometimes  the  want  that  death  brings  is  so  keen  that  it 
smothers  sorrow,  and  the  poor  may  not  mourn  without 
shame — shame  that  they  feel  the  self-interest  in  their  sorrow. 
So  when  Death  entered  a  hundred  homes  in  South  Harvey 
that  winter  day  at  the  beginning  of  the  new  year,  with  him 
came  hunger,  with  him  came  cold,  with  him  came  the  harlot's 
robe  and  the  thief's  mask,  and  the  blight  of  ignorance,  and 
the  denial  of  democratic  opportunity  to  scores  of  children. 
With  death  that  day  as  he  crossed  the  dreary,  unpainted 
portals  of  the  poor  came  horror  that  overshadows  grief 
among  the  poor  and  makes  the  boast  of  the  democracy  of 
death  a  ruthless  irony. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HEREIN  CAPTAIN  MORTON  FALLS  UNDER  SUSPICION  AND  HENRY 
FENN   FALLS  FROM   GRACE 

ON  Market  Street  nearly  opposite  the  Traders'  Na 
tional  Bank  during  the  decades  of  the  eighties  and 
nineties  was  a  smart  store  front  upon  which  was 
fastened  a  large,  black  and  gold  sign  bearing  the  words 
"The  Paris  Millinery  Company"  and  under  these  words  in 
smaller  letters,  "Mrs.  Brunhilde  Herdicker,  Prop."  If 
Mr.  George  Brotherton  and  his  Amen  Corner  might  be  said 
to  be  the  clearing  house  of  public  opinion  in  Harvey,  the 
establishment  of  Mrs.  Brunhilde  Herdicker,  Prop.,  might 
well  be  said  to  be  the  center  of  public  clamor.  For  things 
started  in  this  establishment — by  things  one  means  in  gen 
eral,  trouble;  variegated  of  course  as  to  domestic,  financial, 
social,  educational,  amatory,  and  at  times  political.  Now 
the  women  of  Harvey  and  South  Harvey  and  of  Greeley 
county — and  of  Hancock  and  Seymour  counties  so  far  as 
that  goes — used  the  establishment  of  "The  Paris  Millinery 
Company,  Mrs.  Brunhilde  Herdicker,  Prop.,"  as  a  club — a 
highly  democratic  club — the  only  place  this  side  of  the 
grave,  in  fact,  where  women  met  upon  terms  of  something 
like  equality. 

And  in  spring  when  women  molt  and  change  their  feath 
ers,  the  establishment  of  "Mrs.  Brunhilde  Herdicker, 
Prop."  at  its  opening  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  social  insti 
tution.  It  was  a  kind  of  folk-mote.  Here  at  this  opening, 
where  there  was  music  and  flowers  and  bonbons,  women  as 
sembled  en  masse.  Mrs.  Nesbit  and  Mrs.  Fenn,  Mrs.  Dexter 
and  Violet  Hogan,  she  that  was  born  Mauling  met,  if  not  as 
sisters  at  least  in  what  might  be  called  a  great  step-sister 
hood  ;  and  even  the  silent  Lida  Bowman,  wife  of  Dick,  came 

200 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  UNDER  SUSPICION       201 

from  her  fastness  and  for  once  in  a  year  met  her  old  friends 
who  knew  her  in  the  town's  early  days  before  she  went  to 
South  Harvey  to  share  the  red  pottage  of  the  Sons  of  Esau ! 

But  her  friends  had  little  from  Mrs.  Bowman  more  than 
a  smile — a  cracked  and  weather-beaten  smile  from  a  broken 
woman  of  nearly  forty,  who  was  a  wife  at  fifteen,  a  mother 
at  seventeen,  and  who  had  borne  six  children  and  buried 
two  in  a  dozen  years. 

"There's  Violet,"  ventured  Mrs.  Bowman  to  Mrs.  Dexter. 
1  'I  haven't  seen  her  since  her  marriage." 

To  a  question  Mrs.  Bowman  replied  reluctantly,  "Oh — as 
for  Denny  Hogan,  he  is  a  good  enough  man,  I  guess ! ' ' 

After  a  pause,  Mrs.  Bowman  thought  it  wise  to  add  under 
the  wails  of  the  orchestra:  "Poor  Violet — good  hearted 
girl 's  ever  lived ;  so  kind  to  her  ma ;  and  what  with  all  that 
talk  when  she  was  in  Van  Dorn  's  office  and  all  the  talk  about 
the  old  man  Sands  and  her  in  the  Company  store,  I  just 
guess  Vi  got  dead  tired  of  it  all  and  took  Denny  and  run 
to  cover  with  him." 

Violet  Hogan  in  a  black  satin, — a  cheap  black  satin,  and 
a  black  hat — a  cheap  black  hat  with  a  red  rose — a  most  ab 
surdly  cheap  red  rose  in  it,  walked  about  the  place  picking 
things  over  in  a  rather  supercilious  way,  and  no  one  no 
ticed  her.  Mrs.  Fenn  gave  Violet  an  eye-brow,  a  beautifully 
penciled  eye-brow  on  a  white  marble  forehead,  above  beam 
ing  brown  eyes  that  were  closed  just  slightly  at  the  moment. 
And  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  who  had  kept  track  of  the  girl,  you  may 
be  sure,  went  over  to  her  and  holding  out  her  hand  said: 
"Congratulations,  Violet, — I'm  so  glad  to  hear — "  But 
Mrs.  Denny  Hogan  having  an  eye-brow  to  spare  as  the  gift 
of  Mrs.  Fenn  passed  it  on  to  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  who  said, 
"Oh — "  very  gently  and  went  to  sit  on  a  settee  beside  Mrs. 
Brotherton,  the  mother  of  the  moon-faced  Mr.  Brotherton 
and  Mrs.  Ahab  Wright,  who  always  seemed  to  seek  the  shade. 
And  then  and  there,  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  had  to  listen  to  this 
solo  from  Mrs.  Brotherton : 

"George  says  Judge  Van  Dorn  is  running  for  Judge 
again:  really,  Laura,  I  hope  he'll  win.  George  says  he 
will.  George  says  Henry  Fenn  is  the  only  trouble  Mr. 
Van  Dorn  will  have,  though  I  don't  see  as  Henry  could  do 


202  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

much.  Though  George  says  he  will.  George  says  Henry  is 
cranky  and  mean  about  the  Judge  someway  and  George  says 
Henry  is  drinking  like  a  fish  this  spring  and  his  legs  is 
hollow,  he  holds  so  much;  though  he  must  have  been  joking 
for  I  have  heard  of  hollow  horn  in  cattle,  but  I  never  heard 
of  hollow  legs,  though  they  are  getting  lots  of  new  diseases. ' ' 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Brotherton  found  it  necessary  to  stop 
for  breath,  Laura  Van  Dorn  had  regained  the  color  that  had 
dimmed  as  she  heard  the  reference  to  Henry  Fenn.  And 
when  she  met  Mrs.  Margaret  Fenn  at  a  turn  of  the  aisle, 
Mrs.  Margaret  Fenn  was  the  spirit  of  joy  and  it  seemed  that 
Mrs.  Van  Dorn  was  her  long  lost  sister;  so  Mrs.  Margaret 
Fenn  began  fumbling  her  over  to  find  the  identifying  straw 
berry  mark.  At  least  that  is  what  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop., 
told  Mrs.  Nesbit  as  she  sold  Mrs.  Nesbit  the  large  one  with 
the  brown  plume. 

Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  made  it  a  rule  never  to  gossip,  as 
every  one  who  frequented  her  shop  was  told,  but  as  between 
old  friends  she  would  say  to  Mrs.  Nesbit  that  if  ever  one 
woman  glued  herself  to  another,  and  couldn't  be  boiled  or 
frozen,  or  chopped  loose,  that  woman  was  Maggie  Fenn 
sticking  to  Laura  Van  Dorn.  And  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop., 
closed  her  mouth  significantly,  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  pretended 
with  a  large  obvious,  rather  clumsy  pretense,  that  she  read 
no  meaning  in  Mrs.  Herdicker 's  words.  The  handsome  Miss 
Morton,  with  her  shoe  tops  tiptoeing  to  her  skirts,  who  was 
in  the  shop  and  out  of  school  for  the  rush  season,  listened 
hard,  but  after  that  they  whispered  and  the  handsome  Miss 
Morton  turned  her  attention  to  the  youngest  Miss  Morton 
who  was  munching  bonbons  and  opening  the  door  for  all  of 
Harvey  and  South  Harvey  and  the  principalities  around 
about  to  enter  and  pass  out.  After  school  came  the  tired 
school  teachers  from  the  High  School,  her  eldest  sister, 
Emma  Morton,  among  them,  with  their  books  and  reports 
pressed  against  their  sides.  But  Margaret  Fenn  did  not  see 
the  school  teachers,  nor  even  the  fifth  Mrs.  Sands  towed 
about  by  her  star-eyed  stepdaughter  Anne,  though  Mar 
garet  Fenn's  eyes  were  busy.  But  she  was  watching  the 
women ;  she  was  looking  for  something  as  though  to  ward  it 
off,  always  glancing  ahead  of  her  to  see  where  she  was  going, 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  UNDER  SUSPICION       203 

and  who  was  in  her  path ;  always  measuring  her  woman,  al 
ways  listening  under  the  shriek  of  the  clarionettes,  always 
quick  with  a  smile — looking  for  something — something  that 
she  may  have  felt  was  upon  its  way,  something  that  she 
dreaded  to  see.  But  all  the  shoulders  she  hobnobbed  with 
that  day  were  warm  enough — indifferently  warm,  and  that 
was  all  she  asked.  So  she  smiled  and  radiated  her  fine, 
animal  grace,  her  feline  beauty,  her  super  femininity,  and 
was  as  happy  as  any  woman  could  be  who  had  arrived  at 
an  important  stage  of  her  journey  and  could  see  a  little 
way  ahead  with  some  degree  of  clearness. 

Let  us  look  at  her  as  she  stands  by  the  door  waiting  to 
overhaul  Mrs.  Nesbit.  A  fine  figure  of  a  woman,  Margaret 
Fenn  makes  there — in  her  late  twenties,  with  large  regular 
features,  big  even  teeth,  clear  brown  eyes — not  bold  at  all, 
yet  why  do  they  seem  so?  Perhaps  because  she  is  so  sure 
and  firm  and  unhesitating.  Her  skin  is  soft  and  fair  as  a 
child's,  bespeaking  health  and  good  red  blood.  The  good 
red  blood  shows  in  her  lips — red  as  a  wicked  flower,  red  and 
full  and  as  shameless  as  a  dream.  Taller  than  Mrs.  Nesbit 
she  stands,  and  her  clothes  hang  to  her  in  spite  of  the  full 
ness  of  the  fashion,  in  most  suggestive  lines.  She  seems  to 
shine  out  of  her  clothes  a  lustrous,  shimmering  figure,  fe 
male  rather  than  feminine,  and  gorgeous  rather  than  lovely. 
Margaret  Fenn  is  in  full  bloom ;  not  a  drooping  petal,  not  a 
bending  stamen,  not  a  wilted  calyx  or  bruised  leaf  may  be 
seen  about  her.  She  is  a  perfect  flower  whose  whole  being 
— like  that  of  a  flower  at  its  full — seems  eager,  thrilling, 
burning  with  anticipation  of  the  perfect  fruit. 

She  puts  out  her  hands — both  of  her  large  strong  hands, 
so  well-gloved  and  well-kept,  to  Mrs.  Nesbit.  Surely  Mrs. 
Fenn's  smile  is  not  a  make-believe  smile;  surely  that  is  real 
pleasure  in  her  voice ;  surely  that  is  real  joy  that  lights  up 
her  eyes.  And  why  should  they  not  be  real?  Is  not  Mrs. 
Nesbit  the  one  person  in  all  Harvey  that  Margaret  Fenn 
would  delight  to  honor?  Is  not  Mrs.  Nesbit  the  dowager 
empress  of  Harvey,  and  the  social  despot  of  the  community  ? 
And  is  not  Mrs.  Nesbit  smiling  at  the  eldest  Miss  Morton, 
she  of  the  Longfellow  school,  who  is  trying  on  a  traveling 
hat,  and  explaining  that  she  always  wanted  a  traveling  hat 


204  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  suit  alike  so  that  she  could  go  to  the  Grand  Canyon  if 
she  could  ever  save  up  enough  money,  but  she  could  never 
seem  to  afford  it?  Moreover  is  not  Mrs.  Nesbit  in  a  bene- 
ficient  frame  of  mind  ? 

1  'Well,"  smiles  the  eyes  and  murmurs  the  voice,  and 
glows  the  face  of  the  young  woman,  and  she  puts  out  her 
hand.  "Mrs.  Nesbit — so  glad  I'm  sure.  Isn't  it  lovely 
here  ?  Mrs.  Herdicker  is  so  effective. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Fenn, —  '  this  from  the  dowager,  and  the  eye 
brow  that  Mrs.  Fenn  gave  to  Mrs.  Hogan,  and  Mrs.  Hogan 
gave  to  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  and  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  gave  to  Mrs. 
Brotherton  and  Mrs.  Brotherton  gave  to  Mrs.  Calvin  who, 
George  says,  is  an  old  cat,  and  Mrs.  Calvin  gave  to  Mrs. 
Nesbit  for  remarks  as  to  the  biennial  presence  of  Mr.  Calvin 
in  the  barn  (repeated  to  Mrs.  Calvin),  the  eye-brow  having 
been  around  the  company  comes  back  to  Mrs.  Fenn. 

After  which  Mrs.  Nesbit  moves  with  what  dignity  her  ton 
nage  will  permit  out  of  the  perfumed  air,  out  of  the  concord 
of  sweet  sounds  into  the  street.  Mrs.  Fenn,  who  was  looking 
for  it  all  the  afternoon,  that  thing  she  dreaded  and  antici 
pated  with  fear  in  her  heart's  heart,  found  it.  It  was  ex 
ceedingly  cold — and  also  a  shoulder  of  some  proportions. 
And  it  chilled  the  flowing  sap  of  the  perfect  flower  so  that 
the  flower  shivered  in  the  breeze  made  by  the  closing  door, 
though  the  youngest  Miss  Morton  presiding  at  the  door 
thought  it  was  warm,  and  Mrs.  Herdicker  thought  it  was 
warm  and  Mrs.  Violet  Hogan  said  to  Mrs.  Bowman  as  they 
went  through  the  same  door  and  met  the  same  air :  ' '  My 
land,  Bowman,  did  you  ever  see  such  an  oven?"  and  then 
as  the  door  closed  she  added : 

"See  old  Mag  Fenn  there?  I  just  heard  something  about 
her  to-day.  I  bet  it's  true." 

Thus  the  afternoon  faded  and  the  women  went  home  to 
cook  their  evening  meals,  and  left  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop., 
with  a  few  late  comers — ladies  of  no  particular  character 
who  had  no  particular  men  folk  to  do  for,  and  who  slipped 
in  after  the  rush  to  pay  four  prices  for  what  had  been  left. 
Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  was  straightening  up  the  stock  and 
snapping  prices  to  the  girls  who  were  waiting  upon  the  be 
lated  customers.  She  spent  little  of  her  talent  upon  the 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  UNDER  SUSPICION       205 

sisterhood  of  the  old,  old  trade,  and  contented  herself  with 
charging  them  all  she  could  get,  and  making  them  feel  she 
was  obliging  them  by  selling  to  them  at  all.  It  was  while 
trade  sagged  in  the  twilight  that  Mrs.  Jared  Thurston, 
Lizzie  Thurston  to  be  exact,  wife  of  the  editor  of  the  South 
Harvey  Derrick  came  in.  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  knew  her 
of  old.  She  was  in  to  solicit  advertising,  which  meant  that 
she  was  needing  a  hat  and  it  was  a  swap  proposition.  So 
Mrs.  Herdicker  told  Mrs.  Thurston  to  write  up  the  opening 
and  put  in  a  quarter  page  advertisement  beside  and  send  her 
the  bill,  and  Mrs.  Thurston  looked  at  a  hat.  No  time  was 
wasted  on  her  either — nor  much  talent;  but  as  Mrs.  Thurs 
ton  was  in  a  business  way  herself,  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop., 
stopped  to  talk  to  her  a  moment  as  to  an  equal — a  rare  dis 
tinction.  They  sat  on  a  sofa  in  the  alcove  that  had  shel 
tered  the  orchestra  behind  palms  and  ferns  and  Easter  lilies, 
and  chatted  of  many  things — the  mines,  the  new  smelter, 
the  new  foreman's  wife  at  the  smelter,  the  likelihood  that 
the  Company  store  in  South  Harvey  would  put  in  a  line  of 
millinery — which  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  denied  with  em 
phasis,  declaring  she  had  an  agreement  with  the  old  devil 
not  to  put  in  millinery  so  long  as  she  deposited  at  his  bank. 
Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  had  taken  the  $500  which  the  Com 
pany  had  offered  for  the  life  of  poor  Casper  and  had  filed 
no  lawsuit,  fearing  that  a  suit  with  the  Company  would  hurt 
her  trade.  But  as  a  business  proposition  both  women  were 
interested  in  the  other  damage  suits  pending  against  the 
Company  for  the  mine  accident.  "What  do  they  say  down 
there  about  it?"  asked  the  milliner. 

"Well,  of  course,"  returned  Mrs.  Thurston,  who  was  not 
sure  of  her  ground  and  had  no  desire  to  talk  against  the 
rich  and  powerful,  "they  say  that  some  one  ought  to  pay 
something.  But,  of  course,  Joe  Calvin  always  wins  his 
suits  and  the  Judge,  of  course,  was  the  Company's  attorney 
before  he  was  the  Judge — " 

"And  so  the  claim  agents  are  signing  'em  up  for  what 
the  Company  will  give,"  cut  in  the  questioner. 

"That's  about  it,  Mrs.  Herdicker,"  responded  Mrs. 
Thurston.  "Times  are  hard,  and  they  take  what  they  can 
get  now,  rather  than  fight  for  it.  And  the  most  the  Com- 


206  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

pany  will  pay  is  $400  for  a  life,  and  not  all  are  getting 
that." 

''Tom  Van  Dora — he's  a  smooth  one,  Lizzie — he's  a 
smooth  one."  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  looked  quickly  at  Mrs. 
Thurston  and  got  a  smile  in  reply.  That  was  enough.  She 
continued : 

"You'd  think  he'd  know  better — wouldn't  you?" 

''Well,  I  don't  know— it's  hard  to  teach  an  old  dog  new 
tricks,"  was  the  non-committal  answer  of  Mrs.  Thurston, 
still  cautious  about  offending  the  powers. 

Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  brushed  aside  formalities.  "Yes 
— stenographers  and  hired  girls,  and  biscuit  shooters  at  the 
Palace  and  maybe  now  and  then  an  excursion  across  the 
track;  but  this  is  different;  this  is  in  his  own  class.  They 
were  both  here  this  afternoon,  and  you  should  have  seen  the 
way  she  cooed  and  billed  over  Laura  Van  Dorn.  Honest, 
Lizzie,  if  I'd  never  heard  a  word,  I'd  know  something  was 
wrong.  And  you  should  have  seen  old  lady  Nesbit  give  her 
the  come-uppins. " 

Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  dropped  her  voice  to  a  confidential 
tone.  "Lizzie?"  a  pause;  "They  say  you've  seen  'em  to 
gether.  ' ' 

The  thought  of  the  quarter  page  advertisement  overcame 
whatever  scruples  Mrs.  Thurston  may  have  had,  and  so  long 
as  she  had  the  center  of  the  stage  she  said  her  lines:  "Why 
I  don't  know  a  single  thing — only  this:  that  for — maybe  a 
month  or  so  every  few  days  along  about  five  or  six  o'clock 
when  the  roads  are  good  I've  seen  him  coming  one  way  on 
his  wheel,  and  go  down  in  the  country  on  the  Adams  road, 
arid  about  ten  minutes  later  from  another  way  she'd  come 
riding  along  on  her  wheel  and  go  down  the  Adams  road  into 
the  country  following  him.  Then  in  an  hour  or  so,  they 
come  back,  sometimes  one  of  them  first — sometimes  the 
other,  but  I've  really  never  seen  them  together.  She  might 
be  going  to  the  Adamses;  she  boarded  there  once  years 
ago." 

"Yes, — and  she  hates  'em!"  snapped  Mrs.  Herdicker  de 
risively,  and  then  added,  "Well,  it's  none  of  my  business  so 
long  as  they  pay  for  their  hats." 


CAPTAIN  MORTON  UNDER  SUSPICION       207 

"Well,  my  land,  Mrs.  Herdicker,"  quoth  Lizzie,  "it's  a 
comfort  to  hear  some  one  talk  sense.  For  two  months  now 
we've  been  hearing  nothing  but  that  fool  Adams  boy's  crazy 
talk  about  unions,  and  men  organizing  to  help  their  fellows, 
and — why  did  you  know  he's  quit  his  job  as  boss  carpenter 
in  the  mine?  And  for  why — so  that  he  can  be  a  witness 
against  the  company  some  say;  though  there  won't  be  any 
trial.  Tom  Van  Dorn  will  see  to  that,  He's  sent  word  to 
the  men  that  they'd  better  settle  as  the  law  is  against  them. 
But  that  Grant  Adams  quit  his  job  any  way  and  is  going 
about  holding  meetings  every  night,  and  working  on  con 
struction  work  above  ground  by  day  and  talking  union, 
union,  union  till  Jared  and  I  are  sick  of  it.  I  tell  you  the 
man's  gone  daft.  But  a  lot  of  the  men  are  following  him, 
I  guess." 

Being  a  methodical  woman  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  wrote 
the  copy  for  her  advertisement  and  let  Mrs.  Thurston  go  in 
peace.  She  went  into  the  gathering  twilight,  and  hurried 
to  do  a  few  errands  before  returning  to  South  Harvey. 

At  the  court  house  Mrs.  Thurston  met  Henry  Fenn  com 
ing  out  of  the  register  of  deeds  office  where  he  had  been 
filing  a  deed  to  some  property  he  had  sold,  and  at  Mr.  Broth- 
erton's  Amen  Corner,  she  saw  Tom  Van  Dorn  smoking  upon 
the  bench.  The  street  was  filled  with  bicycles,  for  that  was  a 
time  when  the  bicycle  was  a  highly  respectable  vehicle  of 
business  and  pleasure.  Mrs.  Thurston  left  Market  Street 
and  a  dozen  wheels  passed  her.  As  she  turned  into  her 
street  to  South  Harvey  a  bell  tinkled.  She  looked  around 
and  saw  Margaret  Fenn  making  rapidly  for  the  highway. 
Mrs.  Thurston  was  human ;  she  waited !  And  in  five  minutes 
Tom  Van  Dorn  came  by  and  went  in  the  same  direction ! 

An  hour  later  Margaret  Fenn  came  pedaling  into  the 
town  from  the  country  road,  all  smiling  and  breathless  and 
red  lipped,  and  full  of  color.  As  she  turned  into  her  own 
street  she  met  her  husband,  immaculately  dressed.  He 
bowed  with  great  punctiliousness  and  lifting  his  hat  high 
from  his  head  smiled  a  search-light  of  a  smile  that  frightened 
his  wife.  But  he  spoke  no  word  to  her.  Five  minutes  later, 
as  Tom  Van  Dorn  wheeled  out  of  Market  Street,  he  also  saw 


208  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Henry  Fenn,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  crossing  leering 
at  him  and  laughing  a  drunken,  foolish,  noisy  laugh.  Van 
Dorn  called  back  but  Fenn  did  not  reply,  and  the  Judge 
saw  nothing  in  the  figure  but  his  drunken  friend  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  laughing. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  WHICH   HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM   GRACE  AND  RISES  AGAIN 

THIS  chapter  must  devote  itself  chiefly  to  a  bargain. 
In  the  bargain,  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  is  party  of 
the  first  part,  and  Margaret  Fenn,  wife  of  tlenry 
Fenn,  is  party  of  the  second  part,  and  the  devil  is  the  broker. 

Tom  Van  Dorn  laid  hungry  eyes  upon  Margaret  Fenn; 
Margaret  Fenn  looked  ravenously  upon  all  that  Van  Dorn 
had;  his  talent,  his  position,  his  worldly  goods,  estates  and 
chattels.  He  wanted  what  she  had.  He  had  what  she 
wanted,  and  by  way  of  commission  in  negotiating  the  bar 
gain,  the  devil  took  two  souls — not  such  large  souls  so  far 
as  that  goes ;  but  still  the  devil  seems  to  have  been  the  only 
one  in  the  transaction  who  profited. 

June  came — June  and  the  soft  night  wind,  and  the  warm 
stars ;  June  with  its  new,  deep  foliage  and  its  fragrant  grass 
and  trees  and  flowers;  June  with  a  mocking  bird  singing 
through  the  night  to  its  brooding  mate ;  June  came  with  its 
poets  leaning  out  of  windows  into  the  night  hearing  love 
songs  in  the  rhythmic  whisper  of  lagging  feet  strolling  under 
the  shade  of  elms.  And  under  cover  of  a  June  night,  breath 
ing  in  the  sensuous  meaning  of  the  time  like  a  charmed  po 
tion,  Judge  Van  Dorn,  who  personated  justice  to  twenty-five 
thousand  people,  went  forth  a  slinking,  cringing  beast  to  woo ! 

Here  and  there  a  lamp  blinked  through  the  foliage.  The 
footfalls  of  late  home-comers  were  heard  a  long  way  off ;  the 
voices  of  singers — a  serenading  party  out  baying  at  the  night 
— was  heard  as  the  breeze  carried  the  music  upon  its  sluggish 
ebb  and  flow.  To  avoid  belated  home-comers,  Judge  Van 
Dorn  crossed  the  street;  the  clanging  electric  car  did  not 
find  him  with  its  search-light,  though  he  felt  shielded  by  its 
roar  as  he  stepped  over  the  iron  railing  about  the  Fenn  home 
and  came  softly  across  the  lawn  upon  the  grass. 

On  the  verandah,  hidden  by  summer  vines,  he  sat  a  moment 
alone,  panting,  breathless,  though  he  had  come  up  but  four 

209 


210  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

steps,  and  had  mounted  them  gently.  A  rustle  of  woman's 
garments,  the  creaking  of  a  screen  door,  the  perfume  that  he 
loved,  arid  then  she  stood  before  him — and  the  next  moment 
he  had  her  in  his  arms.  For  a  minute  she  surrendered  with 
out  struggling,  without  protest,  and  for  the  first  time  their 
lips  met.  Then  she  warded  him  off. 

"No— no,  Tom.  You  sit  there— I'll  have  this  swing," 
and  she  slipped  into  a  porch  swing  and  finally  he  sat  down. 

"Now,  Tom,"  she  said,  "I  have  given  you  everything  to 
night.  I  am  entirely  at  your  mercy;  I  want  you  to  be  as 
good  to  me  as  I  have  been  to  you." 

"But,  Margaret,"  he  protested,  "is  this  being  good  to  me, 
to  keep  me  a  prisoner  in  this  chair  while  you — " 

'  *  Tom, ' '  she  answered,  ' '  there  is  no  one  in  the  house.  I  Ve 
just  called  Henry  up  by  long  distance  telephone  at  the  Sec 
retary  of  State's  office  in  the  capitol  building.  I've  called 
him  up  every  hour  since  he  got  there  this  afternoon,  to  make 
him  remember  his  promise  to  me.  He  hasn't  taken  a  thing 
on  this  trip — I'm  sure;  I  can  tell  by  his  voice,  for  one 
thing."  The  man  started  to  speak.  She  stopped  him: 
"Now  listen,  Tom.  He'll  have  that  charter  for  the  Cap 
tain's  company  within  half  an  hour  and  will  start  home  on 
the  midnight  train.  That  will  give  us  just  an  hour  together 
— all  alone,  Tom,  undisturbed." 

She  stopped  and  he  sprang  toward  her,  but  she  fended 
him  off,  and  gave  him  a  pained  look  and  went  on  as  he  sank 
moaning  into  his  chair :  * '  Tom,  dear,  how  should  we  spend 
the  first  whole  hour  we  have  ever  had  in  our  lives  alone  to 
gether  ?  I  have  read  and  reread  your  beautiful  letters,  dear. 
Oh,  I  know  some  of  them  by  heart.  I  am  yours,  Tom — all 
yours.  Now,  dear,"  he  made  a  motion  to  rise,  "come  here 
by  my  chair,  I  want  to  touch  you.  But — that 's  all. ' ' 

They  sat  close  together,  and  the  woman  went  on:  "There 
are  so  many  things  I  want  to  say,  Tom,  to-night.  I  wonder 
if  I  can  think  of  any  of  them.  It  is  all  so  beautiful.  Isn't 
it?"  she  asked  softly,  and  felt  his  answer  in  every  nerve  in 
his  body,  though  his  lips  did  not  speak.  It  was  the  woman 
who  broke  the  silence.  "Time  is  slipping  by,  Tom.  I  know 
what's  in  your  mind,  and  you  know  what's  in  mine.  Where 
will  this  thing  end  ?  It  can 't  go  on  this  way.  It  must  end 


HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE          211 

now,  to-night — this  very  night,  Tom,  dear,  or  we  must  know 
where  we  are  coming  out.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  Margaret,"  replied  the  man.  He  gripped  his  arm 
about  her,  and  continued  passionately,  "And  I'm  ready." 
In  a  long  minute  of  ecstasy  they  were  dumb.  He  went  on : 
"You  have  good  cause — lots  of  cause — every  one  knows  that. 
But  I — I'll  make  it  somehow — Oh,  I  can  make  it."  He  set 
his  teeth  fiercely,  and  repeated,  "Oh,  I'll  make  it,  Mar 
garet." 

The  night  sounds  filled  their  deaf  ears,  and  the  pressure  of 
their  hands — all  so  new  and  strange — filled  them  with  joy, 
but  the  joy  was  shattered  by  a  step  upon  the  sidewalk,  and 
until  it  died  away  they  were  breathless.  Then  they  sat  closer 
together  and  the  woman  whispered : 

"  'And  I'd  turn  my  back  upon  things  eternal 
To  lie  on  your  breast  a  little  while.'  " 

A  noise  in  the  house,  perhaps  of  the  cat  moving  through 
the  room  behind  them,  startled  them  again.  The  man  shook 
and  the  woman  held  her  breath;  then  they  both  smiled. 
"Tom — Tom — don't  you  see  how  guilty  we  are?  We 
mustn't  repeat  this;  this  is  our  hour,  but  we  must  under 
stand  each  other  here  and  now."  The  man  did  not  reply. 
He  who  had  taken  recklessly  and  ruthlessly  all  of  his  life  had 
come  to  a  place  where  he  must  give  to  take.  His  fortunes 
were  tied  up  in  his  answer,  so  he  replied:  "Margaret,  you 
know  the  situation — down  town?" 

"The  judgeship?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"But  that  will  be  settled  in  November.  After  that  is  time 
enough.  Oh,  eternity  is  time  enough,  Tom — I  can  wait  and 
wait  and  wait — only  if  it  is  to  be  for  eternity,  we  must  not 
reckon  with  it  now. ' ' 

"Oh,  Margaret,  Margaret,  Margaret — my  soul's  soul — I 
want  you.  I  know  no  peace  but  to  look  into  your  eyes;  I 
know  no  heaven  but  your  smile — no  God  but  your  possession, 
no  hell  but — but — this!"  He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips 
and  moaned  a  kind  of  human  bellow  of  unrequited  love — 
some  long  suppressed  man's  courting  note  that  we  had  in  the 


212  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

forest,  and  he  grasped  her  in  a  flood  of  passionate  longing. 
She  slipped  away  from  him  and  stood  up  before  him  and 
said:  "No, — No,  no,  my  dear — my  dear — I  love  you — Oh, 
I  do  love  you,  Tom — but  don't — don't." 

He  started  after  her  but  she  pushed  him  back  with  her 
powerful  arms  and  held  him.  "Tom,  don't  touch  me. 
Tom,"  she  panted,  "Tom."  Her  big  meaningful  eyes  met 
his  and  she  held  him  for  a  moment  silent.  He  stepped  back 
and  she  smiled  and  kissed  his  forehead  when  he  had  dropped 
into  a  chair. 

"Now,  Tom,  time  is  slipping  by.  It's  nearly  midnight. 
We've  got  to  talk  sensibly  and  calmly.  Sit  here  by  me  and 
be  as  sane  as  you  can.  We  know  we  love  one  another. 
That's  been  said  and  resaid;  that's  settled.  Now  shall  I 
first  break  for  liberty — or  will  you?  That  must  all  be  set 
tled  too.  We  can't  just  let  things  drift.  I'm  twenty- 
seven.  You're  thirty-five.  Life  is  passing.  Now  when?" 

They  shrank  before  the  light  of  a  street  car  rounding  the 
corner,  that  gleamed  into  their  retreat.  When  it  had  gone, 
the  man  bowed  his  fine,  proud,  handsome  head,  and  spoke 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground : 

"You  go  first — you  have  the  best  cause!"  She  looked 
upon  his  cowardly,  sloping  shoulders,  and  thought  a  moment. 
It  was  the  tigress  behind  the  flame  who  stooped  over  him. 
pondering,  feeling  her  way  through  events  that  she  had  been 
going  over  and  over  in  her  imagination  for  weeks.  The 
feline  caution  that  guided  her,  told  her,  as  it  had  always 
told  her,  that  his  letters  were  enough  to  damn  him,  but 
maybe  not  enough  to  hold  him.  She  was  not  sure  of  men. 
Their  standards  might  not  be  severe  enough  to  punish  him; 
he,  knowing  this,  might  escape.  All  this — this  old  query 
without  answer  went  hurrying  through  her  mind.  But  she 
was  young;  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  in  her.  Henry 
Fenn,  weak,  vacillating,  chivalrous,  adoring  Henry  Fenn, 
had  not  conquered  her;  and  the  fire  in  her  blood,  and  the 
ambition  in  her  brain,  came  over  her  as  a  spell.  She  slipped 
to  her  knees,  putting  her  head  upon  her  lover's  breast,  and 
cried  passionately  in  a  guttural  murmur — "Yes,  I'll  go 
first,  Tom — now,  for  God's  sake,  kiss  me— kiss  me  and  run." 
Then  she  sprang  up:  "Now,  go — go— go,  Tom— run  before 


HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE         213 

I  take  it  back.     Don't  touch  me  again/'  she  cried.     "Go." 

She  slipped  back  into  the  door,  then  turned  and  caught 
him  again  and  they  stood  for  a  terrible  moment  together. 
She  whirled  into  the  house,  clicked  the  door  after  her  and 
left  him  standing  a-tremble,  gaping  and  mad  in  the  night. 
But  she  knew  her  strength,  and  knew  his  weakness  and  was 
not  afraid. 

She  let  him  moan  a  wordless  lovesong,  very  low  and  ter 
rible  in  the  night  alone  before  the  door,  and  did  not  answer. 
Then  she  saw  him  go  softly  down  the  steps,  look  up  and 
down  the  street,  move  guiltily  across  the  yard,  hiding  behind 
a  bush  at  a  distant  footfall,  and  slip  slowly  into  the  sidewalk 
and  go  hurrying  away  from  the  house.  In  half  an  hour  she 
was  waiting  for  Henry  Fenn  as  a  cat  might  wait  at  a  rat  hole. 

The  next  day  little  boys  followed  Henry  Fenn  about  the 
streets  laughing ;  Henry  Fenn,  drunken  and  debased,  whose 
heart  was  bleeding.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he 
appeared  in  the  Amen  Corner.  His  shooting  stars  were  all 
exploded  from  their  rocket  and  he  was  fading  into  the 
charred  papier-mache  of  the  reaction  that  comes  from  over 
exhilaration.  So  he  sat  on  the  walnut  bench,  back  of  the 
newspaper  counter  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  and  his  eyes 
staring  at  the  floor  while  traffic  flowed  through  the  estab 
lishment  oblivious  to  his  presence.  Mr.  Brotherton  watched 
Fenn  but  did  not  try  to  make  him  talk.  There  came  a  time 
when  trade  was  slack  that  Fenn  looked  for  a  minute  fixedly 
at  Mr.  Brotherton,  and  finally  said,  shaking  his  head  sadly: 

"She  says  I've  got  to  quit!"  A  pause  and  another  sigh, 
then:  "She  says  if  I  ever  get  drunk  again,  she'll  quit  me 
like  a  dog."  Another  inspection  of  the  floor;  more  lugubri 
ous  head-shaking  followed,  after  which  the  eyes  closed  and 
the  dead  voice  spoke : 

' '  Well,  here 's  her  chance.  Say,  George, ' '  he  tried  to  smile, 
but  the  light  only  flickered  in  his  leaden  eyes.  "I  guess 
I'm  orey-eyed  enough  now  to  furnish  a  correct  imitation  of 
a  gentleman  in  his  cups  ? ' ' 

Fenn  got  up,  took  Brotherton  back  among  the  books  at  the 
rear  of  the  store.  The  drunken  man  took  from  his  pocket  a 
fountain  pen  incased  in  a  silver  mounting.  He  held  the 
silver  trinket  up  and  said : 


214  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Damn  his  soul  to  hell!" 

"Let  me  see  it — whose  is  it,  Henry?"  asked  Brotherton. 
Fenn  answered,  "That's  my  business."  He  paused;  then 
added  "and  his  business."  Another  undecided  moment, 
and  then  Fenn  concluded :  "And  none  of  your  business." 

Suddenly  he  took  his  hands  off  the  big  man,  and  said, 
"I'm  going  home.  If  she  means  business,  here's  her 
chance. ' ' 

Brotherton  tried  to  stop  him,  but  Fenn  was  insistent. 
Customers  were  coming  in,  and  so  Brotherton  let  the  man  go. 
But  all  the  evening  he  was  worried  about  his  friend.  Ab- 
sentmindedly  he  went  over  his  stock,  straightening  up  Puck 
and  Judge  and  Truth  and  Life,  and  putting  the  magazines  in 
their  places,  sorting  the  new  books  into  their  shelf,  putting 
the  standard  pirated  editions  of  English  authors  in  their 
proper  place  and  squaring  up  the  long  rows  of  * '  The  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush ' '  and  ' '  A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes ' '  where  they 
would  catch  the  buyers'  eyes  upon  the  counter,  in  freshly 
jostled  ranks,  even  and  inviting,  after  the  day's  havoc  in 
Harvey's  literary  circles.  But  always  Fenn's  face  was  in 
Brotherton 's  mind.  The  chatter  of  the  evening  passed  with 
out  Brotherton  realizing  what  it  was  all  about.  As  for  in 
stance,  between  Grant  Adams  and  Captain  Morton  over  a 
sprocket  which  the  Captain  had  invented  and  Henry  Fenn 
had  patented  for  the  Captain.  Grant  on  the  other  hand 
kept  trying  to  tell  the  Captain  about  his  unions  organizing 
in  the  Valley,  and  neither  was  interested  in  what  the  othe* 
said,  yet  each  was  bursting  with  the  importance  of  what  he 
was  saying.  But  even  that  comic  dialogue  could  not  take  Mr. 
Brotherton 's  mind  from  the  search  of  the  sinister  connection 
it  was  trying  to  discover,  between  the  fountain  pen  and 
Henry  Fenn. 

So  Brotherton,  worried  with  the  affairs  of  Fenn,  was 
not  interested  and  the  Captain  peddled  his  dream  in  other 
marts.  With  Fenn's  ugly  face  on  his  mind,  Brotherton 
saw  young  Judge  Van  Dorn  swing  in  lightly,  go  through  his 
daily  pantomime,  all  so  smoothly,  so  well  oiled,  so  polished 
and  polite,  so  courtly  and  affable,  that  for  the  moment  Broth 
erton  laid  aside  his  fears  and  abandoned  his  suspicions. 
Then  Van  Dorn,  after  playing  with  his  cigar,  went  to  the 


HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE          215 

stationery  counter  and  remarked  casually,  "By  the  by, 
George,  do  you  keep  fountain  pens?" 

Mr.  Brotherton  kept  fountain  pens,  and  Judge  Van  Dorn 
said:  "There — that  one  over  by  the  ink  eraser — yes,  that 
one — the  one  in  the  silver  casing — I  seem  to  have  mislaid 
mine.  Yale  men  gave  it  to  me  at  the  reunion  in  '91,  as 
president  of  the  class — had  my  initials  on  it — ten  years — 
yes,"  he  looked  at  the  pen  offered  by  the  store  keeper. 
"That  will  do."  Mr.  Brotherton  watched  the  Judge  as  he 
put  the  pen  in  his  vest  pocket,  after  it  had  been  filled. 

The  Judge  picked  up  a  Chicago  paper,  stowed  it  away 
with  "Anglo-Saxon  Supremacy"  in  his  green  bag.  Then 
he  swung  gracefully  out  of  the  shop  and  left  Mr.  Brotherton 
wondering  where  and  how  Henry  Fenn  got  that  pen,  and 
why  he  did  not  return  it  to  its  owner. 

The  air  of  mystery  and  malice — two  unusual  atmospheres 
for  Henry  Fenn  to  breathe — which  he  had  put  around  the 
pen,  impressed  his  friend  with  the  importance  of  the  thing. 

"A  mighty  smooth  proposition,"  said  Grant  Adams,  sit 
ting  in  the  Amen  Corner  reading  "A  Hazard  qf  New  For 
tunes,"  when  Van  Dorn  had  gone. 

"Well,  say,  Grant,"  returned  Mr.  Brotherton,  pondering 
on  the  subject  of  the  lost  pen.  "Sometimes  I  think  Tom  is 
just  a  little  too  oleaginous — a  little  too  oleaginous,"  re 
peated  Mr.  Brotherton,  pleased  with  his  big  word. 

That  June  night  Henry  Fenn  passed  from  Congress  Street 
and  walked  with  a  steady  purpose  manifest  in  his  clicking 
heels.  It  was  not  a  night's  bat  that  guided  his  feet,  no 
festive  orgy,  but  the  hard,  firm  footfall  of  a  man  who  has 
been  drunk  a  long  time — terribly  mean  drunk.  And 
terribly  mean  drunk  he  was.  His  eyes  were  blazing,  and  he 
mumbled  as  he  walked.  Down  Market  Street  he  turned  and 
strode  to  the  corner  where  the  Traders'  National  Bank  sign 
shone  under  the  electrics.  He  looked  up,  saw  a  light  burn 
ing  in  the  office  above,  and  suddenly  changed  his  gait  to  a 
tip-toe.  Up  the  stairs  he  crept  to  a  door,  under  which  a 
light  was  gleaming.  He  got  a  firm  hold  of  the  knob,  then 
turned  it  quickly,  thrust  open  the  door  and  stepped  quietly 
into  the  room.  He  grinned  meanly  at  Tom  Van  Dorn  who, 
glancing  up  over  his  shoulder  from  his  book,  saw  the  white 


216  IN  THE  HEAKT  OF  A  FOOL 

face  of  Fenn  leering  at  him.  Van  Dorn  knew  that  this  was 
the  time  when  he  must  use  all  the  wits  he  had. 

"Why,  hello — Henry — hello,"  said  Van  Dorn  cheerfully. 
He  coughed,  in  an  attempt  to  swallow  the  saliva  that  came 
rushing  into  his  mouth.  Fenn  did  not  answer,  but  stood 
and  then  began  to  walk  around  Van  Dorn's  desk,  eyeing  him 
with  glowing-red  eyes  as  he  walked.  Van  Dorn  tipped  back 
his  chair  easily,  put  his  feet  on  the  desk  before  him,  and 
spoke:  "Sit  down,  Henry — make  yourself  at  home."  He 
cleared  his  throat  nervously.  "Anything  gone  wrong, 
Henry  ? "  he  asked  as  the  man  stood  over  him  glaring  at  him. 

"No,"  replied  Fenn.  "No,  nothing's  gone  wrong.  I've 
just  got  some  exhibits  here  in  a  law  suit.  That's  all." 

He  stood  over  Van  Dorn,  peering  steadfastly  at  him. 
First  he  laid  down  a  torn  letter.  Van  Dorn  shuddered  al 
most  imperceptibly  as  he  recognized  in  the  crumpled, 
wrenched  paper  his  writing,  but  smiled  suavely  and  said: 
"Well?" 

1 '  Well, ' '  croaked  Fenn  passionately.  ' '  That 's  exhibit '  A. ' 
I  had  to  fig;ht  a  hell-cat  for  it;  and  this,"  he  added  as  he  lay 
down  the  silver-mounted  pen,  "this  is  exhibit  'B.'  I  found 
that  in  the  porch  swing  this  morning  when  I  went  out  to  get 
my  drink  hidden  under  the  house."  He  cackled  and  Van 
Dorn 's  Adam 's  apple  bobbed  like  a  cork  upon  a  wave. 

"And  this,"  cried  Fenn,  as  he  pulled  a  revolver,  "God 
damn  you,  is  exhibit  *C.'  Now,  don't  you  budge,  or  I'll 
blow  you  to  hell — and,"  he  added,  "I  guess  I'll  do  it  any 
way." 

He  stood  with  the  revolver  at  Van  Dorn's  temple — stood 
over  his  victim  growling  like  a  raging  beast.  His  finger 
trembled  upon  the  trigger,  and  he  laughed.  "So  you  were 
going  to  have  a  convenient,  inexpensive  lady  friend,  were 
you,  Tom!"  Fenn  cuffed  the  powerless  man's  jaw  with  an 
open  hand. 

"Private  snap?"  he  sneered.  "Well,  damn  your  soul — 
here's  a  lady  friend  of  mine,"  he  poked  the  cold  barrel 
harder  against  the  trembling  man's  temple  and  cried: 
' '  Don 't  wiggle,  don 't  you  move. ' '  Then  he  went  on :  "  Kiss 
her,  you  damned  egg-sucking  pup — when  you've  done  flirt 
ing  with  this,  I'm  going  to  kill  you." 


HENRY  FENN  FALLS  FROM  GRACE          217 

He  emphasized  the  "you,"  and  prodded  the  man's  face 
with  the  barrel. 

"Henry,"  whispered  Van  Dorn,  "Henry,  for  God's  sake, 
let  me  talk — give  me  a  show,  won 't  you  ? ' ' 

Ferm  moved  the  barrel  of  the  revolver  over  between  the 
man's  eyes  and  cried  passionately:  "Oh,  yes,  I'll  give  you 
a  show,  Tom — the  same  show  you  gave  me. ' ' 

lie  shifted  the  revolver  suddenly  and  pulled  the  trigger; 
the  bullet  bored  a  hole  through  the  book  on  "Anglo-Saxon 
Supremacy"  on  the  desk. 

Fenn  drew  in  a  deep  breath.  With  the  shot  he  had  spilled 
some  vial  of  wrath  within  him,  though  Van  Dorn  could  not 
see  the  change  that  was  creeping  into  Fenn's  haggard  face. 

"You  see  she'll  shoot,  Tom,"  said  Fenn. 

Holding  the  smoking  revolver  to  the  man's  head,  Fenn 
reached  for  a  chair  and  sat  down.  His  rage  was  ebbing,  and 
his  mind  was  clear.  He  withdrew  the  weapon  a  few  inches, 
and  cried: 

"Don't  you  budge  an  inch." 

His  hand  was  limp  and  shaking,  but  Van  Dorn  could  not 
see  it.  "Tom,  Tom,"  he  cried.  "God  help  me — help  me." 
He  repeated  twice  the  word  "me,"  then  he  went  on: 

"For  being  what  I  am — only  what  I  am — "  he  empha 
sized  the  "I." 

* '  For  giving  in  to  your  devil  as  I  give  into  mine — for  fall 
ing  as  I  have  fallen — on  another  road — I  was  going  to  kill 
you." 

The  revolver  slipped  from  his  hands.  He  picked  it  up  by 
the  barrel.  He  rose  crying  in  a  weak  voice, 

"Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  Tom,"  Van  Dorn  was  lifting  up  in  his 
chair,  "Tom,  Tom,  God  help  us  both  poor,  hell-cursed  men," 
sobbed  Fenn,  and  then  with  a  fearful  blow  he  brought  the 
weapon  down  and  struck  the  white,  false  forehead  that 
gleamed  beneath  Fenn's  wet  face. 

He  stood  watching  the  man  shudder  and  close  his  eyes, 
watching  the  blood  seep  out  along  a  crooked  seam,  then  gush 
over  the  face  and  fine,  black  hair  and  silken  mustache.  A 
bloody  flood  streamed  there  while  he  watched.  Then  Fenn 
wiped  dry  the  butt  of  his  revolver.  He  felt  of  the  gash  in 
the  forehead,  and  found  that  the  bone  was  not  crushed.  He 


218  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

was  sober,  and  an  unnatural  calm  was  upon  his  brain.  He 
could  feel  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  stood  looking  at  the  face 
of  the  unconscious  man  a  long,  dreadful  minute  as  one  who 
pities  rather  than  hates  a  foe.  Then  he  stepped  to  the  tele 
phone,  called  Dr.  Nesbit,  glanced  at  the  fountain  pen  and  the 
crumpled  letter,  burst  into  a  spasm  of  weeping,  and  tiptoed 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  A  FAT  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK 

A  YEAR  and  a  month  and  a  day,  an  exceedingly  hot 
day,  after  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  had  fallen  upon 
the  stair  leading  to  his  office  and  had  cut  that  gash 
in  his  forehead  which  left  the  white  thread  of  a  scar  upon 
his  high,  broad  brow,  Judge  Van  Dorn  sat  in  chambers  in  his 
office  in  the  court  house,  hearing  an  unimportant  matter. 
Because  the  day  was  hot,  the  Judge  wore  a  gray  silk  coat, 
without  a  vest,  and  because  the  matter  was  unimportant, 
no  newspaper  reporters  were  called  in.  The  matter  in  hand 
was  highly  informal.  The  Judge,  tilted  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  toyed  with  his  silken  mustache,  while  counsel  for  de 
fendant,  standing  by  the  desk  before  which  the  Judge's 
chair  was  swinging,  handled  the  papers  representing  the 
defendant's  answer,  to  the  plaintiff's  pleadings.  The  plain 
tiff  herself,  dressed  in  rather  higher  sleeves  than  would  have 
been  thought  possible  to  put  upon  a  human  form  and  make 
them  stand  erect,  with  a  rather  larger  hat  than  one  would 
have  said  might  be  carried  by  a  single  human  neck  without 
bowing  it;  the  plaintiff  above  mentioned  was  rattling  the 
court's  paper  knife. 

Plaintiff's  counsel,  a  callow  youth  from  the  law  offices  of 
Joseph  Calvin,  to  be  exact,  Joseph  Calvin,  Jr.,  sat  meekly  on 
the  edge  of  a  small  chair  in  the  corner  and  being  a  chip  of 
the  old  block,  had  little  to  say.  The  court  and  said  herein 
before  described  plaintiff  talked  freely  between  whiles  as 
the  counsel  for  said  defendant,  Henry  Fenn,  ran  over  his 
papers,  looking  for  particular  phrases,  statements  or  exhibits 
which  he  desired  to  present  to  the  court. 

It  appeared  from  the  desultory  reading  of  the  papers  by 
the  attorney  for  the  said  defendant,  Henry  Fenn,  that  he 
had  no  desire  to  impose  upon  the  plaintiff,  as  above  de- 

219 


220  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

scribed,  any  hardships  in  the  matter  and  that  the  agreement 
reached  by  counsel  as  to  the  disposition  of  the  joint  property 
should  be  carried  out  as  indicated  in  the  answer  submitted 
to  the  court — see  folio  No.  3.  Though  counsel  for  defendant 
smilingly  told  the  court  that  if  the  counsel  were  Henry  Fenn, 
he  should  not  give  up  property  worth  at  least  five  thousand 
dollars  in  consideration  of  the  cause  of  action  being  made 
cruelty  and  inhuman  treatment  rather  than  drunkenness, 
but,  as  counsel  explained  and  as  the  court  agreed  when  a 
man  gets  to  going  by  the  booze  route  he  hasn  't  much  sense — 
referring,  of  course,  to  said  defendant,  Henry  Fenn,  not 
present  in  person. 

When  counsel  for  the  said  defendant  had  finished,  and  had 
put  all  his  papers  upon  the  desk  in  front  of  the  court,  the 
court  reached  into  his  desk,  and  handed  the  counsel  for  de 
fendant  a  cigar,  which  with  proper  apologies  to  the  herein- 
above  and  before  described  plaintiff,  counsel  lighted,  and 
said: 

' '  That 's  certainly  a  good  one. ' ' 

But  as  the  court  was  writing  upon  the  back  of  one  of  the 
papers,  the  court  did  not  respond  for  a  moment,  but  finally 
said  absently,  '  *  Yes, — glad  you  think  so ;  George  Brotherton 
imports  them  for  me. ' ' 

And  went  on  writing.  Still  writing  the  court  said  with 
out  looking  up,  "I  don't  know  of  anything  else." 

And  the  counsel  for  defendant  said  he  didn't  either  and 
putting  on  his  hat,  smiling  at  the  plaintiff  aforesaid,  counsel 
for  said  defendant  Henry  Fenn  departed,  and  after  a  minute 
the  court  ceased  writing,  folded  and  blotted  the  back  of  the 
paper,  handed  it  to  young  Joe  Calvin,  sitting  meekly  on  the 
edge  of  the  chair,  saying :  ' '  Here  Joey,  take  this  to  the  clerk 
and  file  it,"  and  Joey  got  up  from  the  edge  of  the  chair 
and  vanished,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"Well?"  said  the  plaintiff. 

"Well!"  echoed  the  court. 

"Well,"  reiterated  the  plaintiff,  gazing  into  the  eyes  of 
the  court  with  somewhat  more  eagerness  than  the  law  requires 
under  statute  therefore  made  and  provided. 

4 '  So  it 's  all  over, ' '  she  continued,  and  added :     ' '  My  part. ' ' 

She  rose — this  plaintiff  hereinbefore  mentioned,  came  to 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  HACK  221 

the  desk,  stood  over  him  a  moment,  and  said  softly,  much 
more  softly  than  the  code  prescribes,  "Tom — I  hope  yours 
won't  be  any  harder." 

Whereupon  the  court,  then  and  there  being  as  herein  above 
set  forth,  did  with  premeditation,  and  much  show  of  emotion 
look  up  into  the  eyes  of  said  plaintiff,  said  eyes  being  tear- 
dimmed  and  extraordinarily  beautiful  as  to  their  coloring  to- 
wit :  brown,  as  to  their  expression  towit :  sad  and  full  of  love, 
and  furthermore  the  court  did  with  deliberation  and  after 
for  a  moment  while  he  held  the  heavy  be  jeweled  hand  of 
said  plaintiff  above  mentioned,  and  did  press  said  hand  to 
his  lips  and  then  did  draw  the  said  plaintiff  closer  and 
whisper : 

44 God — God,  Margaret,  so  do  I  hope  so — so  do  I." 

And  perhaps  the  court  for  a  second  thought  of  a  little  blue- 
eyed,  fair-haired  girl  and  a  gentle  woman  who  lived  for  him 
alone  in  all  the  world,  and  perhaps  not;  for  this  being  a 
legal  paper  may  set  down  only  such  matters  as  are  of  evi 
dence.  But  it  is  witnessed  and  may  be  certified  to  that  the 
court  did  drop  his  eyes  for  a  second  or  two,  that  the  white 
thread  of  a  scar  upon  the  forehead  of  the  court  did  redden 
for  a  moment  while  he  held  the  heavy  bejewelled  hand  of 
plaintiff,  hereinbefore  mentioned,  and  that  he  did  draw  a 
deep  breath,  and  did  look  out  of  the  window,  set  high  up 
in  the  court  house,  and  that  he  did  see  the  elm  trees  cover 
ing  a  home  which,  despite  all  his  perfidy  and  neglect  was  full 
of  love  for  him — love  that  needed  no  high  sleeves  nor  great 
plumy  hats,  nor  twinkling  silver  bangles,  nor  jangling  gold 
chatelaines,  to  make  it  beautiful.  But  let  us  make  it  of  rec 
ord  and  set  it  down  here,  in  this  instrument  that  the  court 
rose,  looked  into  the  great  brown  eyes  and  the  fair  face,  and 
seeing  the  rich,  shameless  mouth  and  blazing  color  upon  the 
features,  did  then  and  there  fall  down  in  his  heart  and 
worship  that  mask,  and  did  take  the  hand  that  he  held  in 
both  of  his  and  standing  before  the  woman  did  cry  in  a  deep 
voice,  full  of  agony : 

1  'For  God's  sake,  Margaret,  let  me  come  to  you  now — 
soon."  And  she — the  plaintiff  in  this  action  gazed  at  the 
man  who  had  been  the  court,  but  who  now  was  man,  and 
replied : 


222  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Only  when  you  may  honestly — legally,  Tom — it's  best  for 
both  of  us." 

They  walked  to  the  door.  The  court  pressed  a  button  as 
she  left,  smiling,  and  when  a  man  appeared  with  a  note  book 
the  court  said :  "I  have  something  to  dictate, ' '  and  the  next 
day  young  Joseph  Calvin  handed  the  following  news  item  to 
the  Harvey  Times  and  to  the  South  Harvey  Derrick. 

"A  divorce  was  granted  to-day  by  Judge  Thomas. Van 
Dorn  of  the  district  court  in  chambers  to  Mrs.  Margaret 
Miiller  Fenn,  from  Henry  Fenn.  Charges  of  cruel  and  in 
human  treatment  filed  by  the  attorneys  for  Mrs.  Fenn  were 
not  met  by  Mr.  Fenn  and  the  court  granted  the  decree  and 
it  was  made  absolute.  It  is  understood  that  a  satisfactory 
settlement  of  the  joint  property  has  been  made.  Mrs.  Fenn 
will  continue  to  hold  the  position  she  has  held  during  the 
year  past  as  chief  clerk  in  the  office  of  the  superintendent 
of  the  Harvey  Improvement  Company.  Mr.  Fenn  is  former 
county  attorney  and  is  now  engaged  in  the  insurance  business, 
having  sold  his  real  estate  business  to  Joseph  Calvin  this 
morning." 

And  thus  the  decree  of  divorce  between  Henry  Fenn  and 
Margaret,  his  wife,  whom  God  had  joined  together,  was  made 
absolute,  and  further  deponent  sayeth  not. 

But  the  town  of  Harvey  had  more  or  less  to  say  about  the 
divorce  and  what  the  town  said,  more  or  less  concerned  Judge 
Thomas  Van  Dorn.  For  although  Henry  Fenn  sober  would 
not  speak  of  the  divorce,  Henry  Fenn  drunk,  babbled  many 
quotations  about  the  '  *  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  who  was  lost 
forever  more."  He  was  also  wont  to  quote  the  line  about 
the  lover  who  held  his  mistress  "something  better  than  his 
dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse." 

As  for  the  Judge,  his  sensitive  mind  felt  the  disapproval 
of  the  community.  But  the  fighting  blood  in  him  was  roused, 
and  he  fought  a  braver  fight  than  the  cause  justified. 
That  summer  he  went  to  all  the  farmers'  picnics  in  his  dis 
trict,  spoke  wherever  he  was  invited  to  speak,  and  spoke 
well;  whatever  charm  he  had  he  called  to  his  aid.  When 
the  French  of  South  Harvey  celebrated  the  Fall  of  the  Bas- 
tile,  Judge  Van  Dorn  spoke  most  beautifully  of  liberty,  and 
led  off  when  they  sung  the  Marseillaise;  on  Labor  Day  he  was 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK  223 

the  orator  of  the  occasion,  and  made  a  great  impression  among 
the  workers  by  his  remarks  upon  the  dignity  of  labor.  He 
quoted  Carlyle  and  Ruskin  and  William  Morris,  and  wept 
when  he  told  them  how  the  mob  had  crucified  the  Carpenter, 
who  was  labor's  first  prophet. 

But  one  may  say  this  for  Judge  Van  Dora:  that  with  all 
his  desire  for  the  approval  of  his  fellows,  even  in  South 
Harvey,  even  at  the  meetings  of  men  who  he  knew  differed 
with  him,  he  did  not  flinch  from  attacking  on  every  occasion 
and  with  all  his  eloquence  the  unions  that  Grant  Adams  was 
promoting.  The  idea  of  mutual  help  upon  which  they 
rested  seemed  to  make  Van  Dorn  see  red,  and  he  was  forever 
going  out  of  his  way  to  combat  the  idea.  So  bitter  was  his 
antagonism  to  the  union  idea  that  in  the  Valley  he  and  Grant 
Adams  became  dramatized  in  the  minds  of  the  men  as  op 
ponents. 

But  in  Harvey,  where  men  regarded  Grant  Adams's  activi 
ties  with  tolerant  indifference  and  his  high  talk  of  bettering 
industrial  conditions  as  the  madness  of  youth,  Judge  Van 
Dorn  was  the  town's  particular  idol. 

A  handsome  man  he  was  as  he  stood  out  in  the  open  under 
the  bower  made  by  the  trees,  and  with  the  grace  and  charm  of 
true  oratory,  spoke  in  his  natural  voice — a  soft,  penetrating 
treble  that  reached  to  the  furthest  man  in  the  crowd;  tall, 
well-built,  oval-faced,  commanding — a  judge  every  inch  of 
him,  even  if  a  young  judge — was  Tom  Van  Dorn.  And  when 
he  had  finished  speaking  at  the  Harvest  Home  Picnic,  or  at 
the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  new  Masonic  Temple, 
or  at  the  opening  of  the  Grant  County  fair,  men  said : 

"Well,  I  know  they  say  Tom  Van  Dorn  is  no  Joseph,  but 
all  the  same  I'm  here  to  tell  you — "  and  what  they  were  there 
to  tell  you  would  discourage  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  believe 
that  material  punishments  always  follow  either  material  or 
spiritual  transgressions. 

So  the  autumn  wore  into  winter,  and  the  State  Bar  Asso 
ciation  promoted  Judge  Van  Dorn ;  he  appeared  as  president 
of  that  dignified  body,  and  thereby  added  to  his  prestige  at 
home.  He  appeared  regularly  at  church  with  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
— going  the  rounds  of  the  churches  punctiliously — and  gave 
liberally  when  a  subscription  paper  for  any  cause  was  pre- 


224  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

sented.  But  for  all  this,  he  kept  hearing  the  bees  of  gossip 
buzzing  about  him,  and  often  felt  their  sting. 

Day  after  day,  through  it  all  he  never  slept  until  in  some 
way,  by  some  device,  through  some  trumped  up  excuse  that 
seemed  plausible  enough  in  itself,  he  had  managed  to  see  and 
speak  to  Margaret  Ferin.  Whether  in  her  office  in  the  Light, 
Heat  &  Power  Company's  building  upon  a  business  errand, 
and  he  made  plenty  of  such,  or  upon  the  street,  or  in  the 
court  house,  where  she  often  went  upon  some  business  of  her 
chief,  or  walking  home  at  evening,  or  coming  down  in  the 
morning,  or  upon  rare  occasions  meeting  her  clandestinely 
for  a  moment,  or  whether  at  some  social  function  where  they 
were  both  present — and  it  of  necessity  had  to  be  a  large  func 
tion  in  that  event — for  the  town  could  register  its  disapproval 
of  the  woman  more  easily  than  it  could  put  its  opprobrium 
upon  the  man ;  or  whether  he  spoke  to  her  just  a  word  from 
the  sidewalk  as  he  passed  her  home,  always  he  managed  to 
see  her.  Always  he  had  one  look  into  her  eyes,  and  so  dur 
ing  all  the  day,  she  was  in  his  thoughts.  It  seems  strange 
that  a  man  of  great  talents  could  keep  the  machinery  of  his 
mind  going  and  still  have  an  ever  present  consciousness  of 
a  guilty  intrigue.  Yet  there  it  was.  Until  he  had  seen  her 
and  spoken  to  her,  it  was  his  day's  important  problem  to 
devise  some  way  to  bring  about  the  meeting.  So  with  devil 
ish  caution  and  ponderous  circumlocution  and  craft  he  went 
about  his  daily  work,  serene  in  the  satisfaction  that  he  was 
being  successful  in  his  elaborate  deceit;  rather  gloating  at 
times  in  the  iniquity  of  one  in  his  position  being  in  so  low  a 
business.  He  wondered  what  the  people  would  say  if  they 
really  knew  the  depths  of  his  infamy,  and  when  he  sentenced 
a  poor  devil  for  some  minor  crime,  he  would  often  watch  him 
self  as  a  third  party  and  wonder  if  he  would  ever  stand  up 
and  take  his  sentence.  But  he  had  no  fear  of  that.  The 
little  drama  between  Judge  Van  Dorn,  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar,  and  the  lover  of  Margaret  Fenn,  was  for  his  diversion, 
rather  than  for  his  instruction,  and  he  enjoyed  it  as  an 
artistic  travesty  upon  the  justice  he  was  dispensing. 

Thomas  Van  Dorn  believed  that  the  world  was  full  of  a 
number  of  exceedingly  pleasant  things  that  might  be  had 
for  the  taking,  and  no  questions  asked.  So  when  he  felt  the 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK  225 

bee  sting  of  gossip,  he  threw  back  his  head,  squared  his  face 
to  the  wind,  put  an  extra  kink  of  elegance  into  his  raiment, 
a  tighter  crimp  into  his  smile  and  an  added  ardor  into  his 
hale  greeting,  did  some  indispensable  judicial  favor  to  the 
old  spider  of  commerce  back  of  the  brass  sign  at  the  Traders 
National,  defied  the  town,  and  bade  it  watch  him  fool  it. 
But  the  men  who  drove  the  express  wagons  knew  that  when 
ever  they  saw  Judge  Van  Dorn  take  the  train  for  the  capital 
they  would  be  sure  to  have  a  package  from  the  capital  the 
next  day  for  Mrs.  Fenn ;  sometimes  it  would  be  a  milliner 's 
box,  sometimes  a  jeweler's,  sometimes  a  florist's,  sometimes  a 
dry-goods  merchant's,  and  always  a  candy  maker's. 

At  last  the  whole  wretched  intrigue  dramatized  itself  in 
one  culminating  episode.  It  came  in  the  spring.  Dr.  Nes- 
bit  had  put  on  his  white  linens  just  as  the  trees  were  in  their 
first  gayety  of  foliage  and  the  spring  blooming  flowers  were 
at  their  loveliest. 

After  a  morning  in  the  dirt  and  grime  and  misery  and  in 
justice  and  wickedness  that  made  the  outer  skin  over  South 
Harvey  and  Foley  and  Magnus  and  the  mining  and  smelter 
towns  of  the  valley,  the  Doctor  came  driving  into  the  cool 
beauty  of  Quality  Hill  in  Harvey  with  a  middle  aged  man's 
sense  of  relief.  South  Harvey  and  its  neighbors  disheartened 
him. 

He  had  seen  Grant  Adams,  a  man  of  the  Doctor's  own 
caste  by  birth,  hurrying  into  a  smelter  on  some  organization 
errand  out  of  overalls  in  his  cheap,  ill-fitting  clothes,  be 
grimed,  heavy  featured,  dogged  and  rapidly  becoming  a  part 
of  the  industrial  dregs.  Grant  Adams  in  the  smelter,  pre 
occupied  with  the  affairs  of  that  world,  and  passing  definitely 
into  it  forever,  seemed  to  the  Doctor  symbolic  of  the  passing 
of  the  America  he  understood  (and  loved),  into  an  America 
that  discouraged  him.  But  the  beauty  and  the  calm  and  the 
restful  elm-bordered  lawns  of  Harvey,  always  toned  up  his 
spirits.  Here,  he  said  to  himself  was  the  thing  he  had  helped 
to  create.  Here  was  the  town  he  had  founded  and  cherished. 
Here  were  the  people  whom  he  really  loved — old  neighbors, 
old  friends,  dear  in  associations  and  sweet  in  memories. 

It  was  in  a  cherubic  complaisance  with  the  whole  scheme 
of  the  universe  that  the  white-clad  Doctor  jogged  up  Elm 


226  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Street  behind  his  maternal  sorrel  in  the  phaeton,  to  get  his 
noon  day  meal.  He  passed  the  Van  Dorn  home.  Its  beauty 
fitted  into  this  mood  and  beckoned  to  him.  For  the  whole 
joy  of  spring1  bloomed  in  Mower  and  shrub  and  vine  that 
bordered  the  house  and  clambered  over  the  wide  hospitable 
porch.  The  gay  color  of  the  spring  made  the  house  glow 
like  a  jewel.  The  wide  lawn — the  stately  trees,  the  gorgeous 
flowers  called  to  his  heart,  and  seeing  his  daughter  upon  the 
piazza,  the  Doctor  surrendered,  drew  up,  tied  the  horse  and 
came  toddling  along  the  walk  to  the  broad  stone  steps,  waving 
his  hands  gayly  to  her  as  he  came.  Little  Lila,  coming  home 
from  kindergarten  and  bleating  through  the  house  lamb-wise : 
"I'm  hungry,"  saw  her  grandfather,  and  ran  down  the  steps 
to  meet  him,  forgetting  her  pangs. 

He  lifted  her  high  to  his  shoulder,  and  came  up  the  porch 
steps  laughing:  "Here  come  jest  and  youthful  jollity,  my 
dear,"  and  stooping  with  his  grandchild  in  his  arms,  kissed 
the  beautiful  woman  before  him. 

"Some  one  is  mighty  sweet  this  morning,"  and  then  seeing 
a  package  beside  her  asked :  "What's  this — "  looking  at  the 
address  and  the  sender's  name.  "Some  one  been  getting  a 
new  dress?" 

The  child  pulling  at  her  mother's  skirts  renewed  her  bleat 
for  food.  When  Lila  had  been  disposed  of  Laura  sat  by  her 
father,  took  his  fat,  pudgy  hand  and  said : 

"Father,  I  don't  know  what  to  do;  do  you  mind  talking 
some  things  over  with  me.  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  to 
see  you  anyway  in  a  few  days.  Have  we  time  to  go  clear  to 
the  bottom  of  things  now?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  serious,  troubled  face,  and 
patted  his  hand.  He  felt  instinctively  the  shadow  that  was 
on  her  heart,  and  his  face  may  have  winced.  She  saw  or 
knew  without  seeing,  the  tremor  in  his  soul. 

1 '  Poor  father — but  you  know  it  must  come  sometime.  Let 
us  talk  it  all  out  now." 

He  nodded  his  head.     He  did  not  trust  his  voice. 

"Well,  father  dear,"  she  said  slowly.  She  nodded  at  the 
package — a  long  dress  box  beside  the  porch  post. 

"That  was  sent  to  Margaret  Fenn.  It  came  here  by  mis 
take — addressed  to  me.  There  were  some  express  charges  on 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK  227 

it.  I  thought  it  was  for  me;  I  thought  Tom  had  bought  it 
for  me  yesterday,  when  he  was  at  the  capital,  so  I  opened  it. 
There  is  a  dress  pattern  in  it — yellow  and  black — colors  I 
never  could  wear,  and  Tom  has  an  exquisite  eye  for  those 
things,  and  also  there  is  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  to  match. 
On  the  memoranda  pinned  on  these,  they  are  billed  to  Mrs. 
Fenn,  but  all  charged  to  Tom.  I  hadn't  opened  it  when  I 
sent  the  expressman  to  Tom's  office  for  the  express  charges, 
but  when  he  finds  the  package  has  been  delivered  here — we 
shall  have  it  squarely  before  us."  The  daughter  did  not  turn 
her  eyes  to  her  father  as  she  went  on  after  a  little  sigh  that 
seemed  like  a  catch  in  her  side : 

'  *  So  there  we  are. ' '  • 

The  Doctor  patted  his  foot  in  silence,  then  replied : 

"My  poor,  poor  child — my  poor  little  girl/'  arid  added 
with  a  heavy  sigh:  "And  poor  Tom — Laura — poor,  fool 
ish,  devil-ridden  Tom."  She  assented  with  her  eyes.  At 
the  end  of  a  pause  she  said  with  anguish  in  her  voice : 

"And  when  we  began  it  was  all  so  beautiful — so  beautiful 
— so  wonderful.  Of  course  I've  known  for  a  long  time — 
ever  since  before  Lila  came  that  it  was  slipping.  Oh,  father 
— I've  known;  I've  seen  every  little  giving  of  the  tie  that 
bound  us,  and  in  my  heart  deep  down,  I've  known  all — all — 
everything — all  the  whole  awful  truth — even  if  I  have  not 
had  the  facts  as  you've  had  them — you  and  mother — I  sup 
pose." 

"You're  my  fine,  brave  girl,"  cried  her  father,  patting  her 
trembling  hand.  But  he  could  speak  no  further. 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not  brave — I'm  not  brave,"  she  answered. 
"I'm  a  coward.  I  have  sat  by  and  watched  it  all  slip  away, 
watched  him  getting  further  and  further  from  me,  saw  my 
hold  slipping — slipping — slipping,  and  saw  him  getting  rest 
less.  I've  seen  one  awful — "  she  paused,  shuddered,  and 
cried,  "Oh,  you  know,  father,  that  other  dreadful  affair.  I 
saw  that  rise,  burn  itself  out  and  then  this  one — "  she  turned 
away  and  her  body  shook. 

In  a  minute  she  was  herself:  "I'm  foolish  I  suppose,  but 
I've  never  talked  it  out  before.  I  won't  do  it  again.  I'm 
all  right  now."  She  took  his  hands  and  continued : 

"Now,  then,  tell  me — is  there  any  way  out?     What  shall 


230  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

ing  into  the  wistaria  vines  as  one  who  saw  his  world  quaking. 
A  quick  bolt  of  sympathy  shot  through  the  daughter's  heart. 
She  patted  his  limp  hands  and  said  softly,  "So — father — I 
mustn't  leave  Tom.  He's  a  poor,  weak  creature — a  rotten 
stick — and  because  I  know  it — I  must  stay  with  him ! ' ' 

Behind  the  screen  of  matter,  the  lusty  fates  were  pulling 
at  the  screws  of  the  rack.  "Pull  harder,"  cried  the  first 
fate ;  * '  the  little  old  pot-bellied  rascal — make  him  see  it :  make 
him  see  how  he  warned  her  against  the  symptoms,  but  not  the 
disease  that  was  festering  her  lover 's  soul ! ' ' 

"Turn  yourself,"  cried  the  second,  "make  the  forehead 
sweat  as  he  sees  how  he  has  been  delivering  laws  in  a  basket 
to  grind  iniquity  through  Tom  Van  Dorn's  mill!  Turn — 
turn,  turn  you  lout!" 

"And  you,"  cried  the  third  fate  at  the  screw  to  the  first, 
"twist  that  heart-string,  twist  it  hard  when  he  sees  his  daugh 
ter's  broken  face  and  hears  her  sobbing !" 

But  the  angels,  the  pitying  angels,  loosened  the  cords  of 
the  rack  with  their  gentle  tears. 

As  the  taut  threads  of  the  rack  slackened,  he  heard  the 
soft  voice  of  his  daughter  saying:  "But  of  course,  the  most 
important  thing  is  Lila — not  that  she  means  a  great  deal  to 
him  now.  He  doesn't  care  much  for  children.  He  doesn't 
want  them — children. ' ' 

She  turned  upon  her  father  and  with  anguished  voice  and 
with  all  her  denied  motherhood,  she  cried:  "O,  father — 
I  want  them — lots  of  them — arms  full  of  them  all  the  time." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms.  "Oh,  it's  been  so  hard,  to  feel 
my  youth  passing,  and  only  one  child — I  wanted  a  whole 
house  full.  I'm  strong;  I  could  bear  them.  I  don't  mind 
anything — I  just  want  my  babies — my  babies  that  never 
have  come." 

And  then  the  pitiless  fates  turned  the  screws  of  the  rack 
again  and  the  father  burst  forth  in  his  vain  grief,  with  his 
high,  soft,  woman 's  voice.  ' '  I  wonder — I  wonder — I  wonder, 
what  God  has  in  waiting  for  you  to  make  up  for  this?" 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  telephone  bell  rang.  The 
wife  stepped  to  the  instrument.  "Well,"  she  said  when  she 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK  231 

came  back.  "The  hour  has  struck;  the  expressman  went  to 
Tom  for  the  express  charges ;  he  knows  the  package  is  here 
and,"  she  added  after  a  sigh,  "he  knows  that  I  know  all 
about  it."  She  even  smiled  rather  sadly,  "So  he's  coming 
out — on  his  wheel." 


230  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

ing  into  the  wistaria  vines  as  one  who  saw  his  world  quaking. 
A  quick  bolt  of  sympathy  shot  through  the  daughter's  heart. 
She  patted  his  limp  hands  and  said  softly,  "So — father — I 
mustn't  leave  Tom.  He's  a  poor,  weak  creature— a^  rotten 
stick — and  because  I  know  it — I  must  stay  with  him ! ' ' 

Behind  the  screen  of  matter,  the  lusty  fates  were  pulling 
at  the  screws  of  the  rack.  "Pull  harder,"  cried  the  first 
fate ;  * '  the  little  old  pot-bellied  rascal — make  him  see  it :  make 
him  see  how  he  warned  her  against  the  symptoms,  but  not  the 
disease  that  was  festering  her  lover 's  soul ! ' ' 

"Turn  yourself,"  cried  the  second,  "make  the  forehead 
sweat  as  he  sees  how  he  has  been  delivering  laws  in  a  basket 
to  grind  iniquity  through  Tom  Van  Dorn's  mill!  Turn — 
turn,  turn  you  lout!" 

"And  you,"  cried  the  third  fate  at  the  screw  to  the  first, 
"twist  that  heart-string,  twist  it  hard  when  he  sees  his  daugh 
ter's  broken  face  and  hears  her  sobbing!" 

But  the  angels,  the  pitying  angels,  loosened  the  cords  of 
the  rack  with  their  gentle  tears. 

As  the  taut  threads  of  the  rack  slackened,  he  heard  the 
soft  voice  of  his  daughter  saying :  ' '  But  of  course,  the  most 
important  thing  is  Lila — not  that  she  means  a  great  deal  to 
him  now.  He  doesn't  care  much  for  children.  He  doesn't 
want  them — children. ' ' 

She  turned  upon  her  father  and  with  anguished  voice  and 
with  all  her  denied  motherhood,  she  cried:  "O,  father — 
I  want  them — lots  of  them — arms  full  of  them  all  the  time." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms.  ' ' Oh,  it's  been  so  hard,  to  feel 
my  youth  passing,  and  only  one  child — I  wanted  a  whole 
house  full.  I'm  strong;  I  could  bear  them.  I  don't  mind 
anything — I  just  want  my  babies — my  babies  that  never 
have  come." 

And  then  the  pitiless  fates  turned  the  screws  of  the  rack 
again  and  the  father  burst  forth  in  his  vain  grief,  with  his 
high,  soft,  woman 's  voice.  ' '  I  wonder — I  wonder — I  wonder, 
what  God  has  in  waiting  for  you  to  make  up  for  this?" 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  telephone  bell  rang.  The 
wife  stepped  to  the  instrument.  "Well,"  she  said  when  she 


A  LITTLE  RASCAL  ON  THE  RACK  231 

came  back.  "The  hour  has  struck;  the  expressman  went  to 
Tom  for  the  express  charges;  he  knows  the  package  is  here 
and,"  she  added  after  a  sigh,  "he  knows  that  I  know  all 
about  it."  She  even  smiled  rather  sadly,  "So  he's  coming 
out — on  his  wheel." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  WHICH  TOM   VAN   DORN   BECOMES   A  WAYFARING   MAN   ALSO 

THE  father  rose.     His  head  was  cast  down.     He  poked 
a  vine  curling  about  the  porch  floor  with  his  cane. 
"I  wonder,  my  dear,"  he  spoke  slowly,  and  with 
great  gentleness,  "if  maybe  I  shouldn't  talk  with  Tom — 
before  you  see  him." 

He  continued  to  poke  the  vine,  and  looked  up  at  the  daugh 
ter  sadly.  "Of  course  there's  Lila;  if  it  is  best  for  her — 
why  that's  the  thing  to  do — I  presume." 

"But  father,"  broke  in  the  daughter,  "Tom  and  I  can — " 

But  he  entreated,  "Won't  you  let  me  talk  with  Tom?  In 
half  an  hour — I'll  go.  You  and  Lila  slip  over  to  mother's 
for  half  an  hour — come  back  at  half  past  twelve.  I'll  tell 
him  where  you  are. ' ' 

The  mother  and  child  had  disappeared  around  the  corner 
of  the  house  when  the  click  of  Van  Dorn's  bicycle  on  the 
curbing  told  the  Doctor  that  the  young  man  was  upon  the 
walk.  The  package  from  the  capital  still  lay  beside  the 
porch  column.  The  Doctor  did  not  lift  his  eyes  from  it  as 
the  younger  man  came  hurrying  up  the  steps.  He  was 
flushed,  bright-eyed,  a  little  out  of  breath,  and  his  black  wing 
of  hair  was  damp.  On  the  top  step,  he  looked  up  and  saw 
the  Doctor. 

"It's  all  right,  Tom— I  understand  things."  The  Doc 
tor's  eyes  turned  to  the  parcel  on  the  floor  between  them. 

The  Doctor's  voice  was  soft ;  his  manner  was  gentle,  and  he 
lifted  his  blue,  inquiring  eyes  into  the  young  Judge's  rest 
less  black  ones.  Dr.  Nesbit  put  a  fatherly  hand  on  the  young 
man's  arm,  and  said:  "Shall  we  sit  down,  Tom,  and  take 
stock  of  things  and  see  where  we  stand?  Wouldn't  that  be 
a  good  idea  ? ' ' 

They  sat  down  and  the  younger  man  eyed  the  package, 
turned  it  over,  looked  at  the  address  nervously,  pulled  at  his 

232 


TOM  VAN  DORN  A  WAYFARING  MAN        233 

mustache  as  he  sank  back,  while  the  elder  man  was  saying : 
' '  I  believe  I  understand  you,  Tom — better  than  any  one  else 
in  the  world  understands  you.  I  believe  you  have  not  a  bet 
ter  friend  on  earth  than  I  right  at  this  minute. ' ' 

The  Judge  turned  around  and  said  in  a  disturbed  voice, 
'*!  am  sure  that's  the  God's  truth,  Doctor  Jim."  Then  after 
a  sigh  he  added,  ' '  And  this  is  what  I  've  done  to  you ! ' ' 

' '  And  will  keep  right  on  doing  to  me  as  long  as  you  live, ' ' 
piped  the  elder  man,  twitching  his  mouth  and  nose  con 
temptuously. 

"As  long  as  I  live,  I  fancy,"  repeated  the  other.  In  the 
pause  the  young  man  put  his  hands  to  his  hips  and  his  chin 
on  his  breast  as  he  slouched  down  in  the  chair  and  asked: 
"Where's  Laura?" 

"Over  at  her  mother's,"  replied  the  father.  "Nobody 
will  interrupt  us — and  so  I  thought  we  could  get  down  to 
grass  roots  and  talk  this  thing  out. ' ' 

The  Judge  crossed  his  handsome  ankles  and  sat  looking  at 
his  trim  toes. 

* '  I  suppose  that  idea  is  as  good  as  any. ' '  He  put  one  long, 
lean,  hairy  hand  on  the  short,  fat  knee  beside  him  and  said : 
"The  whole  trouble  with  our  Protestant  religion  is  that  we 
have  no  confessor.  So  some  of  us  talk  to  our  lawyers,  and 
some  of  us  talk  to  our  doctors,  and  in  extreme  unction  we  talk 
to  our  newspapers." 

He  grinned  miserably,  and  went  on :  "  But  we  all  talk  to 
some  one,  and  now  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you — talk  for  once, 
Doctor,  right  out  of  my  soul — if  I  have  one. ' ' 

He  rose  nervously,  o'beying  some  purely  physical  impulse, 
and  then  sat  down  again,  with  his  hands  in  his  thick,  black 
hair,  and  his  elbows  on  his  bony  knees. 

"All  right,  Tom,"  piped  the  Doctor,  "go  ahead." 

"Well,  then,"  he  began  as  he  looked  at  the  floor  before 
him,  "do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that  you  know  what  I'm 
up  to?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  even  what  the  town  is 
buzzing  about?  Lord,  man,  I  can  feel  it  like  a  scorching 
fire.  Why,"  he  exclaimed  with  emotion,  "feeling  the  hearts 
of  men  is  my  job.  I've  been  at  it  for  fifteen  years — " 

He  broke  off  and  looked  up.  ' '  How  could  I  get  up  before 
a  jury  and  feel  them  out  man  by  man  as  I  talked  if  I  wasn't 


234  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

sensitive  to  these  things?  You've  seen  me  make  them  cry 
when  I  was  in  the  practice.  How  could  I  make  them  cry  if 
I  didn't  feel  like  crying  myself.  You're  a  doctor — you  know 
that.  People  forget  what  I  am — what  a  thousand  stringed 
instrument  I  am.  Now,  Doctor  Jim,  let  me  tell  you  some 
thing.  This  is  the  bottom  hard  pan  of  the  truth:  I  never 
before  really  cared  for  these  women — these  other  women 
— when  I  got  them.  But  I  do  care  for  the  chase,  I  do  care 
for  the  risk  of  it — for  the  exhilaration  of  it — for  the  joy 
of  it!" 

The  Doctor's  mouth  twitched  and  he  took  a  breath  as  if 
about  to  speak.  Van  Dorn  stopped  him:  " Don't  cut  in, 
Doc  Jim — let  me  say  it  all  out.  I'm  young.  I  love  the  moon 
light  and  the  stars  and  I  never  go  through  a  wood  that  I  do 
not  see  trysting  places  there — and  I  never  see  a  great  stretch 
of  prairie  under  the  sunshine  that  I  do  not  put  in  a  beautiful 
woman  and  go  following  her — not  for  her — Doctor  Jim,  but 
for  the  joy  of  pursuit,  for  the  thrill  of  uncovering  a  bared, 
naked  soul,  and  the  overwhelming  danger  of  it.  God — man, 
I've  stood  afraid  to  breathe,  flattened  against  a  wall  and 
heard  the  man-beast  growl  and  sniff,  hunting  me.  I  love  to 
love  and  be  loved;  but  not  less  do  I  love  to  hunt  and  be 
hunted.  I've  hidden  under  trees,  I've  skulked  in  the  shad 
ows,  I've  walked  boldly  in  the  sunlight  with  my  life  in  my 
hand  to  meet  a  woman's  eyes,  to  feel  her  guilty  shudder  in 
my  arms.  Oh,  Doctor  Jim,  you  don't  understand  the  riot  in 
my  blood  that  the  moon  makes  shining  through  the  trees  upon 
the  water,  with  great,  shadowy  glades,  and  the  tinkle  of 
cow  bells  far  away,  and  a  woman  afraid  of  me — and  I  afraid 
of  her — and  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  night  between  us. ' ' 

He  rose  and  began  pacing  the  piazza  as  he  continued  speak 
ing.  "It's  always  been  so  with  me — as  early  as  my  boyhood 
it  was  so.  I  often  wake  in  the  lonely  nights  and  think 
of  them  all  over  again — the  days  and  nights,  the  girls  and 
women  who  have  flashed  bright  and  radiant  into  my  life. 
Over  and  over  again,  I  repeat  to  my  soul  their  names,  over 
and  over  I  live  the  hours  we  have  spent  together,  the  dangers, 
the  delights,  the  cruel  misery  of  it  all  and  then  at  the  turn  of 
the  street,  at  the  corner  of  a  room,  in  the  winking  of  an  eye 
I  see  another  face,  it  looks  a  challenge  at  me  and  I  am.  out 


TOM  VAN  DORN  A  WAYFARING  MAN        235 

on  the  high  road  of  another  romance.  I  Ve  got  to  go !  It 's 
part  of  my  life;  it's  the  pulse  of  my  blood." 

lie  stood  excited  with  his  deep,  beady,  black  eyes  burning 
and  his  proud,  vain  face  flushed  and  his  hands  a-tremble. 
The  Doctor  saw  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  physical  and 
mental  turmoil  that  could  not  be  checked. 

Van  Dorn  went  on:  "And  then  you  and  my  friends  ask 
me  to  quit.  Laura,  God  help  her — she  naturally — "  he  ex 
claimed.  "But  is  the  moon  to  be  blotted  out  for  me?  Are 
the  night  winds  to  be  muffled  and  mean  no  more  than  the 
scraping  of  a  dead  twig  against  a  rusty  wire?  Are  flowers 
to  lose  their  scent,  and  grass  and  trees  and  birds  to  be  blurred 
and  turned  drab  in  my  eyes?  How  do  you  think  I  live, 
man?  How  do  you  think  I  can  go  before  juries  and  audi 
ences  and  make  them  thrill  and  clench  their  fists  and  cry  like 
children  and  breathe  with  my  emotions,  if  I  am  to  be  stone 
dead?  Do  you  think  a  wooden  man  can  do  that?  Try  Joe 
Calvin  with  a  jury — what  does  he  accomplish  with  all  his 
virtue?  He  hasn't  had  an  emotion  in  twenty  years.  A 
pretty  woman  looking  at  Joe  in  a  crowd  wouldn't  say  any 
thing  to  him  with  her  eyes  and  dilating  nostrils  and  the  swish 
of  her  body.  And  when  he  gets  before  a  jury  he  talks  the 
law  to  them,  and  the  facts  to  them,  and  the  justice  of  the 
case  to  them.  But  when  I  used  to  stand  up  before  them, 
they  knew  I  was  weak,  human  mud.  They  had  heard  all  the 
stories  on  me.  They  knew  me,  and  some  of  them  despised 
me,  and  all  of  them  were  watching  out  for  me,  but  when  I 
reached  down  in  my  heart  and  brought  up  the  common  clay 
of  which  we  all  are  made  and  molded  it  into  a  man  or  an 
event  before  their  eyes,  then — by  God  they  came  to  me.  And 
yet  you've  been  sitting  there  for  years,  Doctor  Jim  Nesbit 
and  saying  'Tom — Tom,  why  don't  you  quit?'  : 

He  was  seated  now,  talking  in  a  low,  tense  voice,  looking 
the  Doctor  deeply  in  the  eyes,  and  as  he  paused,  the  perspira 
tion  stood  out  upon  his  scarred  forehead,  and  pink  splotches 
appeared  there  and  the  veins  of  his  temples  were  big  and 
blue.  The  Doctor  turned  away  his  eyes  and  said  coldly: 
"There's  Laura — Tom — Laura  and  little  Lila." 

"Yes,"  he  groaned,  rising.     "There  are  Laura  and  Lila." 

He  thrust  his  hands  deeply  into  his  pockets  and  looked 


236  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

down  at  the  Doctor  and  sneered.  "There's  the  trap  that 
snapped  and  took  a  paw,  and  I'm  supposed  to  lick  it  and  love 
it  and  to  cherish  it." 

He  shuddered,  and  continued :  l '  For  once  I  '11  speak  and 
tell  it  all.  I'll  not  be  a  hypocrite  in  this  hour,  though  ever 
after  I  may  lie  and  cringe.  There  are  Laura  and  Lila  and 
here  am  I.  And  out  beyond  is  the  wind  in  the  elms  and  the 
sunshine  upon  the  grass  and  the  moving  odor  of  flowers — 
flowers  that  are  blushing  with  the  joy  of  nature  in  her  great 
perennial  romance — and  there's  Laura  and  Lila  and  here 
ami." 

His  passion  was  ebbing;  his  face  was  hardening  into  its 
wonted  vain,  artificial  contour,  his  eyes  were  losing  their  dila 
tion,  and  he  was  sitting  rather  limply  in  his  chair,  staring 
into  space.  The  Doctor  came  at  him. 

1 '  You  're  a  fool.  You  had  your  fling ;  you  're  along  in  your 
thirties,  nearly  forty  now  and  it's  time  to  stop."  The 
younger  man  could  not  regain  the  height,  but  he  could  hide 
under  his  crust.  So  he  parried  back  suavely,  with  insolence 
in  his  voice : 

' '  Why  stop  at  thirty — or  even  forty  ?    Why  stop  at  all  ? " 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,  Tom,"  returned  the  Doc 
tor.  "It's  all  very  fine  to  talk  this  way;  but  this  thing  has 
become  a  fixed  habit,  just  like  the  whiskey  habit ;  and  in  fif 
teen  or  twenty  years  more  you'll  be  a  chronic,  physical,  de 
generate  man.  You'll  lose  your  self-respect.  You'll  lose 
your  quick  wits,  and  your  whole  mind  and  body  will  be  burn 
ing  up  with  a  slow  fire. ' ' 

* '  Oh,  you  dear  old  fossil, ' '  replied  Van  Dorn  in  a  hollow, 
dead  voice,  rising  and  patting  his  tie  and  adjusting  his  coat 
and  collar,  "  I  'm  no  fool.  I  know  what  I  'm  doing.  I  know 
how  far  to  go,  and  when  to  stop.  But  this  game  is  interest 
ing;  and  I'm  only  a  man,"  he  straightened  up  again,  patted 
his  mustache,  and  again  tipped  his  hat  into  a  cockey  angle 
over  his  forehead,  and  went  on,  "not  a  monk."  He  smiled, 
pivoted  on  his  heel  nervously  and  went  on,  "And  what  is 
more  I  can  take  care  of  myself. ' ' 

"Tom,"  cried  the  Doctor  in  his  treble,  with  excitement  in 
his  voice,  "you  can't  take  care  of  yourself.  No  man  ever 


TOM  VAN  DORN  A  WAYFARING  MAN        237 

lived  who  could.  You  may  get  away  with  your  love  affairs, 
and  no  one  be  the  wiser;  you  may  make  a  crooked  or  dirty 
million  on  a  stock  deal  and  no  one  be  the  wiser;  but  you'll 
bear  the  marks  to  the  grave." 

"So,"  mocked  the  sneering  voice  of  the  young  Judge, 
"I  suppose  you'll  carry  the  marks  of  all  the  men  you've 
bought  up  in  this  town  for  twenty  years." 

"Yes,  Tom,"  returned  the  Doctor  pitifully,  as  he  rose  and 
stood  beside  the  preening  young  man,  * '  I  '11  carry  'em  to  the 
grave  with  me,  too ;  I  've  had  a  few  stripes  to-day. ' ' 

"Well,  anyway,"  retorted  Van  Dorn,  pulling  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  restlessly,  "you're  entitled  to  what  you  get  in  this 
life.  And  I'm  going  to  get  all  I  can,  money  and  fun,  and 
everything  else.  Morals  are  for  sapheads.  The  preacher's 
God  says  I  can't  have  certain  things  without  His  cracking 
down  on  me.  Watch  me  beat  Him  at  his  own  game."  It 
was  all  a  make-believe  and  the  Doctor  saw  that  the  real  man 
was  gone. 

"Tom,"  sighed  the  Doctor,  "here's  the  practical  question 
— you  realize  what  all  this  means  to  Laura?  And  Lila — 
why,  Tom,  can't  you  see  what  it's  going  to  mean  to  her — 
to  all  of  us  as  the  years  go  by?" 

Their  eyes  met  and  turned  to  the  parcel  on  the  floor. 
"You  can't  afford — well,  that  sort  of  thing,"  the  Doctor 
punched  the  parcel  contemptuously  with  his  cane.  "  It 's  all 
bad  enough,  Tom,  but  that  way  lies  hell!" 

Van  Dorn  turned  upon  the  Doctor,  and  squared  his  jaw 
and  said:  "Well  then — that's  the  way  I'm  going — that 
way" — he  nodded  toward  the  package — "lies  romance  for 
me !  There  is  the  road  to  the  only  joy  I  shall  ever  know  in 
this  earth.  There  lies  life  and  beauty  and  all  that  I  live  for, 
and  I  'm  going  that  way. ' ' 

The  Judge  met  the  father's  beseeching  face,  with  an  angry 
glare — defiant  and  insolent. 

The  Doctor  had  no  time  to  reply.  There  was  a  stir  in  the 
house,  and  a  child's  steps  came  running  through  the  hall. 
Lila  stopped  on  the  porch,  hesitating  between  the  two  men. 
The  Doctor  put  out  his  arms  for  her.  Van  Dorn  casually 
reached  out  his  hand.  She  ran  to  her  father  and  cried,  "Up 


238  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

— Daddy — up,"  and  jumped  to  his  shoulder  as  he  took  her. 
The  Doctor  walked  down  the  steps  as  his  daughter  came  out 
of  the  door. 

The  man  and  the  woman  looked  at  one  another,  but  did  not 
speak.  The  father  put  the  child  down  and  said: 

"Now,  Lila,  run  with  grandpa  and  get  a  cooky  from 
granny  while  your  mother  and  I  talk." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  blue  eyes  and  her  sadly 
puckered  little  face,  swallowed  her  disappointed  tears  and 
trudged  down  the  steps  after  the  white-clad  grandfather  who 
was  untying  his  horse. 

When  the  child  and  the  grandfather  were  gone  the  wife 
said  in  a  dead,  emotionless  voice,  looking  at  the  parcel  on  the 
floor,  "Well,  Tom?" 

"Well,  Laura,"  he  repeated,  "that's  about  the  size  of  it — 
there  it  is — and  you  know  all  about  it.  I  shall  not  lie — this 
time.  It 's  not  worth  while — now. " 

The  woman  sat  in  a  porch  chair.  The  man  hesitated,  and 
she  said:  "Sit  down,  Tom.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  or 
what  to  say,"  she  began.  "If  there  were  just  you  and  me 
to  consider,  I  suppose  I  'd  say  we  'd  have  to  quit.  But  there 's 
Lila.  She  is  here  and  she  does  love  you — and  she  has  hei 
right — the  greatest  right  in  the  world  to — well,  to  us — to  a 
home,  and  a  home  means  a  father  and  a  mother. ' '  The  man 
rose.  He  put  his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets  and  stood  by  the 
porch  column,  making  no  reply. 

The  wife  continued,  l  i  I  can 't  even  speak  of  what  you  have 
done  to  me,  Tom.  But  it  will  hurt  when  I  'm  an  old  woman— 
I  want  to  hide  my  face  from  every  one — even  from  God— • 
when  I  think  of  what  you  have  used  me  for." 

He  dropped  into  the  chair  beside  her,  looking  at  the  floor. 
Her  voice  had  stirred  some  chord  in  his  thousand-stringed 
heart.  He  reached  out  a  hand  to  her. 

' l  No,  Tom, ' '  said  the  wife,  ' '  I  don 't  want  your  pity. ' ' 

"No,  Laura,"  the  husband  returned  quickly,  "no,  you 
don't  need  my  pity;  it's  not  pity  that  I  am  trying  to  give 
you.  I  only  wished  you  to  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.' 
The  wife  looked  at  her  husband  for  a  second  in  fear  as  she 
apprehended  what  he  was  about  to  utter.  He  turned  his 
eyes  from  her  and  went  on:  "It  was  a  mistake,  a  very 


TOM  VAN  DORN  A  WAYFARING  MAN        239 

nightmare  of  a  mistake — my  mistake — all  my  mistake — but 
still  just  an  awful  mistake.  We  couldn't  make  life  go.  All 
this  was  foredoomed,  Laura,  and  now — now — "  his  eyes  were 
upon  the  parcel  on  the  floor,  "here  I  am  sure  1  have  found 
the  thing  my  life  needs.  And  it  is  my  life— my  life."  He 
saw  his  wife  go  pale,  then  flush;  but  he  went  on.  "After 
all,  it  is  one's  own  life  that  commands  him,  and  nothing  else 
in  the  world.  And  now  I  must  follow  my  destiny." 

"But,  Tom,"  asked  the  wife,  "you  aren't  going  to  this 
woman?  You  aren't  going  to  leave  us?  You  surely  won't 
break  up  this  home — not  this  home,  Tom?" 

The  man  hesitated  before  answering,  then  spoke  directly: 
"I  must  follow  my  destiny — work  it  out  as  I  see  it.  You 
have  no  right,  no  one  has  any  right — even  I  have  no  right  to 
compromise  with  my  destiny.  I  live  in  this  world  just 
once!" 

"But  what  is  your  destiny,  Tom?"  answered  the  wife. 
"Leave  me  out  of  it:  but  aren't  the  roots  you  have  put  down 
in  this  home,  this  career  you  are  building;  our  child's  normal 
girlhood  with  a  father's  care — aren't  these  the  big  things 
in  your  destiny?  Lila's  life — growing  up  under  the  shame 
that  follows  a  child  of  parents  divorced  for  such  base  reasons 
as  these?  Lila's  life  is  surely  a  part  of  your  destiny. 
Surely,  surely  you  have  no  rights  apart  from  her  and  hers!" 

His  quick  mind  was  ready.  "I  have  my  own  life  to  live, 
my  own  destiny  to  follow;  my  individual  equation  to  solve, 
and  for  me  nothing  exists  in  the  universe.  As  for  my  career 
—I'll  take  care  of  that.  That's  mine  also!" 

The  wife  threw  out  an  appealing  hand.  "Tom,  I  can't 
help  wanting  to  pick  you  up  and  shield  you.  It  will  be  aw- 
ful — awful — that  thing  you  are  trying  to  go  into.  You've 
always  chosen  the  material  thing— the  practical  thing— and 
she — she's  a  practical  woman.  Oh,  Tom — I'm  not  jealous — 
not  a  bit.  If  I  thought  she  would  enrich  your  soul— if  I 
thought  she  would  give  you  what  I've  wanted  to  give  you— 
what  I've  prayed  God  night  after  night  to  let  me  give  you— 
I'd  take  even  Lila  and  go  away  and  give  you  your  chance 
for  a  love  such  as  I've  had.  Can  you  see,  Tom,  I'm  not  jeal 
ous  ?  I  'm  not  even  angry. ' ' 

He  turned  upon  her  suddenly  and  said:     "You  don't 


240  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

know  what  you're  talking  about.  Anyway — she  suits  me — 
she'll  enrich  me  as  you  call  it  all  right.  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"No,  Tom,"  said  the  wife  quietly,  "she'll  not  enrich  you 
— not  spiritually.  No  one  can  do  that — for  any  one.  It  must 
come  from  within.  I've  poured  my  very  heart  over  you, 
Tom,  and  you  didn't  want  it — you  only  wanted — oh,  God — 
hide  my  shame — my  shame — my  shame."  Her  voice  rose 
for  a  moment  and  she  muffled  it  with  her  face  in  her  arms. 

"Tom—"  she  faltered,  "Tom— I  am  going  to  make  one 
last  plea — for  Lila's  sake  won't  you  put  it  all  away — won't 
you  ? "  she  shuddered.  "  It  is  killing  all  my  self-respect,  Tom 
— but  I  must.  Won't  you — won't  you  please  for  Lila's  sake 
come  back,  break  this  off — and  see  if  we  can't  patch  up  life?" 

"No,"  he  answered. 

Their  eyes  met ;  his  shifting,  beady  eyes  were  held  forcibly 
with  many  a  twitching,  by  her  gray  eyes.  For  two  awful 
seconds  they  stood  taking  farewell  of  each  other. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  dropping  his  glance. 

Then  he  put  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  finality,  "I'm 
going  now.  I  don't  know  when — or — well,  whether  I'll 
come — "  He  picked  up  the  package.  He  was  going  down 
the  steps  with  the  package  in  his  hands  when  he  heard  the 
patter  of  little  feet  and  a  little  voice  calling: 

"Daddy— daddy— "  and  repeated,  "daddy." 

He  did  not  turn,  but  walked  quickly  to  the  sidewalk.  As 
far  as  he  could  hear,  that  childish  voice  called  to  him. 

And  he  heard  the  cry  in  his  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HERE  GRANT   ADAMS  DISCOVERS   HIS   INSIDES 

LAURA  VAN  DORN  stood  watching  her  husband  pass 
down  the  street.  She  silenced  the  child  by  clasping 
her  close  in  the  tender  motherly  arms.  No  tears  rose 
in  the  wife's  eyes,  as  she  stood  looking  vacantly  down  the 
street  at  the  comer  where  her  husband  had  turned.  Gradu 
ally  it  came  to  her  consciousness  that  a  crowd  was  gather  ing 
by  her  father's  house.  She  remembered  then  that  she  had 
seen  a  carriage  drive  up,  and  that  three  or  four  men  followed 
it  on  bicycles,  and  then  half  a  dozen  men  got  out  of  a  wagon. 
Even  while  she  stared,  she  saw  the  little  rattletrap  of  a 
buggy  that  Amos  Adams  drove  come  tearing  up  to  the  curb 
by  "her  father's  house.  Amos  Adams,  Jasper  and  little  Ken- 
yon  got  out.  Even  amidst  the  turmoil  of  her  emotions,  she 
moved  mechanically  to  the  street,  to  see  better,  then  she 
clasped  Lila  to  her  breast  and  ran  toward  her  father's  home. 

''What  is  it?"  she  cried  to  the  first  man  she  met  at  the 
edge  of  the  little  group  standing  near  the  veranda  steps. 

"Grant  Adams— we're  afraid  he's  killed."  The  man  who 
spoke  was  Denny  Hogan.  Beside  him  was  an  Italian,  who 
said,  "lie's  burned  something  most  awful.  lie  got  it  saving 
des  feller  here,"  nodding  and  pointing  to  Hogan. 

Laura  put  down  her  child  and  hurried  through  the  house 
to  her  father's  little  office.  The  strong  smell  of  an  anes 
thetic  came  to  her.  She  saw  Amos  Adams  standing  a-tremble 
by  the  office  door,  holding  Kenyon's  hand.  Amos  answered 
her  question. 

"They  think  he's  dying, — I  knew  he'd  want  to  see  Ken- 
yon." 

Jasper,  white  and  frightened,  stood  on  the  stairs.  These 
details  she  saw  at  a  glance  as  she  pushed  open  the  office 
door.  At  first  she  saw  great  George  Brotherton  and  three 

241 


242  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

or  four  white-faced,  terrified  working  men,  standing  in  stiff 
helplessness,  while  like  a  white  shuttle,  among  the  gloomy 
figures  the  Doctor  moved  quickly,  ceaselessly,  effectively. 
Then  her  eyes  met  her  father's.  He  said: 

"Come  in,  Laura — 1  need  you.  Now  all  of  you  go  out  but 
George  and  her. ' ' 

Then,  as  she  came  into  the  group,  Laura  saw  Grant  Adams, 
sitting  with  agony  upon  his  wet  face.  Her  father  bent  over 
him  and  worked  on  a  puffy,  pink,  naked  arm  and  shoulder, 
and  body.  The  man  was  half  conscious ;  his  face  was  twitch 
ing,  and  when  she  looked  again  she  saw  where  his  right  hand 
should  be  only  a  brown,  charred  stump. 

Not  looking  up  the  Doctor  spoke:  "You  know  where 
things  are  and  what  I  need — I  can't  get  him  clear  under," 
Every  motion  he  made  counted;  he  took  no  false  steps;  he 
made  no  turn  of  his  body  or  twist  of  his  hand  that  was  not 
full  of  conscious  purpose.  He  only  spoke  to  give  orders,  and 
when  Brotherton  whispered  to  Laura: 

"White  hot  lead  pig  at  the  smelter — Grant  saw  it  was  go 
ing  to  kill  Hogan  and  grabbed  it." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head  at  Brotherton  and  for  two 
hours  that  was  all  Laura  knew  of  the  accident.  Once  when 
the  Doctor  stopped  for  a  second  to  take  a  deep  breath,  Broth 
erton  asked,  "Do  you  want  another  doctor?"  the  little  man 
shook  his  head  again,  and  motioned  with  it  at  his  daughter. 

"She's  doing  well  enough."  She  kept  her  father's  merci 
less  pace,  but  always  the  sense  of  her  stricken  life  seemed 
to  be  hovering  in  the  back  of  her  consciousness,  and  the  hours 
seemed  ages  as  she  applied  her  bandages,  and  helped  with  the 
grewsome  work  of  the  knife  on  the  charred  stump  of  the 
arm.  But  finally  it  was  over  and  she  saw  Brotherton  and 
Hogan  lift  Grant  to  a  cot,  under  her  father's  direction,  and 
carry  him  to  the  bedroom  she  had  used  as  a  girl  at  home. 
"While  the  Doctor  and  Laura  had  been  working  in  his  office 
Mrs.  Nesbit  had  been  making  the  bedroom  ready. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  two  fagged  women  were  in 
Mrs.  Nesbit 's  room.  The  younger  woman  was  pale  and  hag 
gard  and  unable  to  relax.  The  mother  tried  all  of  a  mother's 
wiles  to  bring  peace  to  the  over-strung  nerves.  But  the 
daughter  paced  the  floor  silently,  or  if  she  spoke  it  was  to 


GRANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  HIS  INSIDES     243 

ask  some  trivial  question  about  the  household — about  what 
arrangements  were  made  for  the  injured  man's  food,  about 
Lila,  about  Amos  Adams  and  Kenyon.  Finally,  as  she 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  her  mother  asked,  ' '  Where  are  you 
going  ? ' '  The  daughter  answered,  '  *  Why,  I  'm  going  home. ' ' 

' '  But  Laura, ' '  the  mother  returned, ' '  I  believe  your  father 
is  expecting  your  help  here — to-night.  I  am  sure  he  will 
need  you."  The  daughter  looked  steadily,  but  rather  va 
cantly  at  her  mother  for  a  moment,  then  replied:  "Well, 
Lila  and  I  must  go  now.  I'll  leave  her  there  with  the  maid 
and  I'll  try  to  come  back." 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door-knob.  "Well,"  hesitated  her 
mother,  "what  about  Tom—?" 

The  eyes  of  the  two  women  met.  "Did  father  tell  you?" 
asked  the  daughter's  eyes.  The  mother's  eyes  said  "Yes." 
Then  rose  the  Spartan  mother,  and  put  a  kind,  firm  hand 
upon  the  daughter's  arm  and  asked :  ^"But  Laura,  my  dear, 
my  dear,  you  are  not  going  back  again,  to  all — all  that,  are 
you?" 

"I  am  going  home,  mother,"  the  daughter  replied. 

"But  your  self-respect,  child?"  quoted  the  Spartan,  and 
the  daughter  made  answer  simply:  "I  must  go  home, 
mother." 

When  Laura  Yan  Dorn  entered  her  home  she  began  the 
evening's  routine,  somewhat  from  habit,  and  yet  many  things 
she  did  she  grimly  forced  herself  to  do.  She  waited  dinner 
for  her  husband.  She  called  his  office  vainly  upon  the  tele 
phone.  She  and  Lila  ate  alone ;  often  they  had  eaten  alone 
before.  And  as  the  evening  grew  from  twilight  to  dark,  she 
put  the  child  to  bed,  left  one  of  the  maids  in  the  child's  room, 
lighted  an  electric  reading  lamp  in  her  husband's  room, 
turned  on  the  hall  lamp,  instructed  the  maid  to  tell  the  Judge 
that  his  wife  was  with  her  father  helping  him  with  a  wounded 
man,  and  then  she  went  out  through  the  open,  hospitable 
door. 

But  all  that  night,  as  she  sat  beside  the  restless  man,  who 
writhed  in  his  pain  even  under  the  drug,  she  went  over  and 
over  her  problem.  She  recognized  that  a  kind  of  finality  had 
come  into  her  relations  with  her  husband.  In  the  rush  of 
events  that  had  followed  his  departure,  a  period,"  definite  and 


244  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

conclusive  seemed  to  have  been  put  after  the  whole  of  her 
life's  adventures  with  Tom  Van  Dorn.  She  did  not  cry,  nor 
feel  the  want  of  tears,  yet  there  were  moments  when  she 
instinctively  put  her  hands  before  her  face  as  in  a  shame. 
She  saw  the  man  in  perspective  for  the  first  time  clearly. 
She  had  not  let  herself  take  a  candid  inventory  of  him  before. 
But  that  night  all  her  subconscious  impressions  rose  and 
framed  themselves  into  conscious  reflections.  And  then  she 
knew  that  his  relation  with  her  from  the  beginning  had  been 
a  reflex  of  his  view  of  life — of  his  material  idea  of  the  scheme 
of  things. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  she  kept  her  nurse's  chart  and  did 
the  things  to  be  done  for  her  patient.  For  the  time  her 
emotions  were  spent.  Her  heart  was  empty.  Even  for  the 
shattered  and  suffering  body  before  her,  the  tousled  red 
head,  the  half-closed,  pain-bleared  eyes,  the  lips  that  shielded 
the  clenched  teeth — she  felt  none  of  that  tenderness  that 
comes  from  deep  sympathy  and  moving  pity.  At  dawn  she 
went  home  with  her  body  worn  and  weary,  and  after  the 
sun  was  up  she  slept. 

Scarcely  had  the  morning  stir  begun  in  the  Nesbit  house 
hold,  before  Morty  Sands  appeared,  clad  in  the  festive  rai 
ment  of  the  moment — white  ducks  and  a  shirtwaist  and  a 
tennis  racquet,  to  be  exact.  He  asked  for  the  Doctor  and 
when  the  Doctor  came,  Morty  cocked  his  sparrow  like  head 
and  paused  a  moment  after  the  greetings  of  the  morning  were 
spoken.  After  his  inquiries  for  Grant  had  been  satisfied, 
Morty  still  lingered  and  cocked  his  head. 

"Of  course,  Doctor,"  Morty  began  diffidently,  "and  natur 
ally  you  know  more  of  it  than  I — but — "  he  got  no  further 
for  a  second.  Then  he  gathered  courage  from  the  Doctor's 
bland  face  to  continue:  "Well,  Doctor,  last  night  at  Broth- 
erton's,  Tom  came  in  and  George  and  Nate  Perry  and  Kyle 
and  Captain  Morton  and  I  were  there ;  and  Tom — well,  Doctor 
— Tom  said  something — " 

"He  did— did  he?"  cut  in  the  Doctor.  "The  dirty  dog! 
So  he  broke  the  news  to  the  Amen  Corner!" 

"Now,  Doctor,  we  all  know  Tom,"  Morty  explained. 
"We  know  Tom:  but  George  said  Laura  was  helping  with 
Grant,  and  I  just  thought,  certainly  I  have  no  wish  to  in- 


GRANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  HIS  INSIDES     245 

trude,  but  I  just  thought  maybe  I  could  relieve  her  myself 
by  sitting  up  with  Grant,  if — " 

The  Doctor's  kindly  face  twitched  with  pain,  and  he 
cried:  "Morty,  you're  a  boy  in  a  thousand!  But  can't 
you  see  that  just  at  this  time  if  I  had  half  a  dozen  cases  like 
Grant's,  they  would  be  a  God's  mercy  for  her!" 

Morty  could  not  control  his  voice.  So  he  turned  and 
tripped  down  the  steps  and  flitted  away.  As  Morty  dis 
appeared,  George  Brotherton  came  roaring  up  the  hill,  but 
no  word  of  what  Van  Dorn  had  said  in  the  Amen  Corner 
did  Mr.  Brotherton  drop.  He  asked  about  Grant,  inquired 
about  Laura,  and  released  a  crashing  laugh  at  some  story 
of  stuttering  Kyle  Perry  trying  to  tell  deaf  John  Kollander 
about  the  Venezuelan  dispute.  "Kyle,"  said  George,  "pro 
nounces  Venezuela  like  an  atomizer!"  Captain  Morton 
rested  from  his  loved  employ,  let  the  egg-beater  of  the  hour 
languish,  and  permitted  stock  in  his  new  Company  to  slump 
in  a  weary  market  while  he  camped  on  the  Nesbit  veranda 
during  the  day  to  greet  and  disperse  such  visitors  as  Mrs. 
Nesbit  deemed  of  sufficiently  small  social  consequence  to  re 
ceive  the  Captain's  ministrations.  At  twilight  the  Captain 
greeted  Laura  coming  from  her  home  for  her  night  watch, 
and  with  a  rather  elaborate  scenario  of  amenities,  told  her 
how  his  Household  Horse  company  was  prospering,  how  his 
egg  beater  was  going,  and  asked  after  Lila's  health,  omitting 
mention  of  the  Judge  with  an  easy  nonchalance  which  struck 
terror  to  the  woman's  heart — terror,  lest  the  Captain  and 
through  him  all  men  should  know  of  her  trouble. 

But  deeper  than  the  terror  in  her  heart  at  what  the  Cap 
tain  might  know  and  tell  was  the  pain  at  the  thing  she  knew 
herself — that  the  home  which  she  loved  was  dead.  However 
proudly  it  might  stand  before  the  world,  for  the  passing  hour 
or  day  or  year,  she  knew,  and  the  knowledge  sickened  her  to 
her  soul's  death,  that  the  home  was  doomed.  She  kept  think 
ing  of  it  as  a  tree,  whose  roots  were  cut ;  a  tree  whose  leaves 
were  still  green,  whose  comeliness  still  pleased  the  eye  but 
whose  ugly,  withered  branches  soon  must  stand  out  to  affront 
the  world.  And  sorrowing  for  the  beauty  that  was  doomed 
she  went  to  her  work.  All  night  with  her  father  she  minis 
tered  to  the  tortured  man,  but  in  the  morning  she  slipped 


246  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

away  to  her  home  again  hoping  her  numb  vain  hope,  through 
another  weary  journey  of  the  sun. 

The  third  night  found  Grant  Adams  restless,  wakeful, 
anxious  to  talk.  The  opiates  had  left  him.  She  saw  that  he 
was  fully  himself,  even  though  conscious  of  his  tortured 
body.  " Laura/'  he  cried  in  a  sick  man's  feeble  voice,  "I 
want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Not  now,  Grant,"  she  returned  quietly.  "I'd  rather 
hear  it  to-morrow. ' ' 

"No,"  he  returned  stubbornly,  "I  want  to  tell  you  now." 

He  paused  as  if  to  catch  his  breath.  "For  I  want  you  to 
know  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  the  world."  He  set  his  teeth 
firmly.  The  muscles  of  his  jaw  worked,  and  he  smiled  up  at 
her.  He  questioned  her  with  his  blue  eyes,  and  after  some 
assent  had  come  into  her  face — or  he  thought  it  had,  he 
went  on: 

"There's  a  God  in  Israel,  Laura — I  know  it  way  down  in 
me  and  all  through  me." 

A  crash  of  pain  stopped  him.  He  grinned  at  the  groan, 
which  the  pain  wrenched  from  him,  and  whispered,  "There's 
a  God  in  Israel — for  He  gave  me  my  chance.  I  saw  the 
great  white  killing  thing  coming  to  do  for  Denny  Hogan. 
How  I'd  waited  for  that  chance.  Then  when  it  came,  I 
wanted  to  run.  But  I  didn't  run.  There's  something  in 
you  bigger  than  fear.  So  when  God  gave  me  my  chance 
He  put  the — the — the — "  pain  wrenched  him  again,  and 
he  said  weakly,  "the — I've  got  to  say  it,  you'll  understand 
— He  put  the — the  guts  in  me  to  take  it." 

When  she  left  him  a  few  minutes  later  he  seemed  to  be 
asleep.  But  when  Doctor  Nesbit  came  into  the  room  an 
hour  later  Grant  was  wide-eyed  and  smiling,  and  seemed  so 
much  better  that  as  a  reward  of  merit  the  Doctor  brought  in 
the  morning  paper  and  told  Grant  he  could  look  at  the  head 
ings  for  five  minutes.  There  it  was  that  he  first  realized 
what  a  lot  of  business  lay  ahead  of  him,  learning  to  live  as  a 
one-armed  man.  The  Doctor  saw  his  patient  worrying  with 
the  paper,  and  started  to  help. 

"No,  Doctor,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  must  begin  some 
time,  and  now's  as  good  a  time  as  any."  So  he  struggled 
with  the  unwieldy  sheets  of  paper,  and  finally  managed  to 


GEANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  HIS  INSIDES      247 

get  his  morning's  reading  done.  When  the  time  was  up, 
he  handed  back  his  paper  saying,  "I  see  Tom  Van  Dorn  is 
going  on  his  vacation — does  that  mean  Laura,  too?"  The 
Doctor  shook  his  head;  and  by  way  of  taking  the  subject 
away  from  Laura  he  said:  "Now  about  your  damages, 
Grant — you  know  I'll  stand  by  you  with  the  Company,  don't 
you — I'm  no  Van  Dorn,  if  I  am  Company  doctor.  You 
ought  to  have  good  damages — for — " 

"Damages!  damages!"  cried  Grant,  "why,  Doctor,  I  can't 
get  damages.  I  wasn't  working  for  the  smelter  when  it 
happened.  I  was  around  organizing  the  men.  And  I  don 't 
want  damages.  This  arm,"  he  looked  lovingly  at  the  stump 
beside  him,  "is  worth  more  in  my  business  than  a  million 
dollars.  For  it  proves  to  me  that  I  am  not  afraid  to  go  clear 
through  for  my  faith,  and  it  proves  me  to  the  men!  Dam 
ages  !  damages  ?  "  he  said  grimly.  ' '  Why,  Doctor,  if  Uncle 
Dan  and  the  other  owners  up  town  here  only  know  what  this 
stump  will  cost  them,  they  would  sue  me  for  damages!  I 
tell  you  those  men  in  the  mine  there  saved  my  life.  Ever 
since  then  I've  been  trying  to  repay  them,  and  here  comes 
this  chance  to  turn  in  a  little  on  account,  to  bind  the  bargain, 
and  now  the  men  know  how  seriously  I  hold  the  debt.  Dam 
ages?"  There  was  just  a  hint  of  fanaticism  in  his  laugh; 
the  Doctor  looked  at  Grant  quickly,  then  he  sniffed,  "Fine 
talk,  Grant,  fine  talk  for  the  next  world,  but  it  won't  buy 
shoes  for  the  baby  in  this, ' '  and  he  turned  away  impatiently 
and  went  into  a  world  of  reality,  leaving  Grant  Adams  to 
enjoy  his  Utopia. 

That  morning  after  breakfast,  when  Laura  had  gone  home, 
the  Doctor  and  his  wife  sitting  alone  went  into  the  matter 
further.  "Of  course,"  said  the  Doctor,  "she'll  see  that  he 
has  gone  away.  But  when  should  we  tell  her  what  he  has 
done?" 

"Doctor,"  said  the  mother,  "you  leave  his  letter  here 
where  I  can  get  it.  I'm  going  over  there  and  pack  every 
thing  that  rightfully  may  be  called  hers — I  mean  her  dresses 
and  trinkets — and  such  things  as  have  in  them  no  particular 
memory  of  him.  They  shall  come  home.  Then  I'll  lock  up 
the  house." 

The  Doctor  squinted  up  his  eyes  thoughtfully  and  said 


248  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

slowly,  "Well,  that  seems  kind.  I  don't  suppose  you  need 
read  her  the  whole  letter.  Just  tell  her  he  is  going  to  ask 
for  a  divorce — tell  her  it's  incompatibility.  But  his  letter 
isn't  important."  The  Doctor  sighed. 

"Grant  ought  really  to  stay  here  another  week — maybe 
we  can  stretch  it  to  ten  days — and  let  her  have  all  the  re 
sponsibility  she'll  take.  It'll  help  her  over  the  first  bridge. 
Kenyon  is  taking  care  of  Lila — I  suppose?"  The  Doctor 
rose,  stood  by  his  wife  and  said  as  he  found  her  hand : 

"Poor  Laura — poor  Laura — and  Lila!  You  know  when  I 
had  her  down  town  with  me  yesterday,  in  the  hallway  lead 
ing  to  Joe  Calvin's  office,  she  met  Tom — "  The  Doctor 
looked  away  for  a  moment.  "It  was  pretty  tough — her 
little  heart-break  when  he  went  by  her  without  taking  her 
up!"  The  wife  did  not  reply.  The  husband  with  his  arm 
about  her  walked  toward  the  door. 

"You  can't  tell  me,  my  dear,  that  Tom  isn't  paying — I 
know  how  that  sort  of  thing  gets  under  his  skin — he's  too 
sensitive  not  to  imagine  all  it  means  to  the  child."  Mrs. 
Nesbit's  face  hardened  and  her  husband  saw  her  bitter 
ness.  "I  know,  my  dear — I  know  how  you  feel — I  feel  all 
that,  and  yet  in  my  very  heart  I'm  sorry  for  poor  Tom. 
He's  swapping  substance  for  shadow  so  recklessly — not  only 
in  this,  not  merely  with  Laura — but  Avith  everything — every 
thing." 

"Good  Lord,  Jim,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  agonize  over  a 
wool-dyed  scoundrel  like  that — perhaps  you  have  some  tears 
for  that  Fenn  hussy,  too !" 

"Well,"  squeaked  the  Doctor  soberly — "I  knew  her 
father — a  lecherous  old  beast  who  brought  her  up  without 
restraint  or  morals — with  a  greedy  philosophy  pounded  into 
her  by  example  every  day  of  her  life  until  she  was  seventeen 
years  old.  There's  something  to  be  said — even  for  her,  my 
dear — even  for  her. ' ' 

"Well,  Jim  Nesbit,"  answered  his  wife,  "I'll  go  a  long 
way  with  you  in  your  tomfoolery,  but  so  long  as  I've  got  to 
draw  the  line  somewhere  I'll  draw  it  right  there." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  floor.  "I  suppose  so — "  he 
sighed,  then  lifted  his  head  and  said:  "I  was  just  trying 
to  think  of  all  the  sorrows  that  come  into  the  world,  of  all 


GRANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  HIS  INSIDES     249 

the  tragedies  I  ever  knew,  and  I  have  concluded  that  this 
tragedy  of  divorce  when  it  comes  like  this — as  it  has  come 
to  our  daughter — is  the  greatest  tragedy  in  the  world.  To 
love  as  she  loved  and  to  find  every  anchor  to  which  she  tied 
the  faith  of  her  life  rotten,  to  have  her  heart  seared  with 
faithlessness — to  see  her  child — her  flesh  and  blood  scorned, 
to  have  her  very  soul  spat  upon — that's  the  essence  of  sor 
row,  my  dear. ' ' 

He  looked  up  into  her  eyes,  bent  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  after 
he  had  picked  up  his  cane  and  his  hat  from  the  rack,  toddled 
down  the  walk  to  the  street,  a  sad,  thoughtful,  worried  little 
man,  white-clad  and  serene  to  outward  view,  who  had  not 
even  a  whistle  nor  a  vagrant  tune  under  his  breath  to  console 
him. 

That  day,  after  her  father's  insistence,  Laura  Van  Dorn 
changed  from  the  night  watch  to  the  day  nurse,  and  from 
that  day  on  for  ten  days,  she  ministered  to  Grant  Adams' 
wants.  Mechanically  she  read  to  him  from  such  books  as  the 
house  afforded — Tolstoi — Ibsen,  Hardy,  Howells, — but  she 
was  shut  away  from  the  meaning  of  what  she  read  and  even 
from  the  comments  of  the  man  under  her  care,  by  the  con 
sideration  of  her  own  problems.  For  to  Laura  Van  Dorn  it 
was  a  time  of  anxious  doubt,  of  sad  retrogression,  of  inner 
anguish.  In  some  of  the  books  were  passages  she  had  marked 
and  read  to  her  husband ;  and  such  pages  calling  up  his  dull 
comprehension  of  their  beauty,  or  bringing  back  his  scoffing 
words,  or  touching  to  the  quick  a  hurt  place  in  her  heart, 
taxed  her  nerves  heavily.  But  during  the  time  while  she 
sat  by  the  injured  man 's  bedside,  she  was  glad  in  her  heart 
of  one  thing — that  she  had  an  excuse  for  avoiding  the  people 
who  called. 

As  Grant  grew  stronger — as  it  became  evident  that  he 
must  go  soon,  the  woman's  heart  shrank  from  meeting  the 
town,  and  she  clung  to  each  duty  of  the  man's  convalescence 
hungrily.  She  knew  she  must  face  life,  that  she  must  have 
some  word  for  her  friends  about  her  tragedy.  She  felt  that 
in  going  away,  in  suing  for  the  divorce  himself,  her  husband 
had  made  the  break  irrevocable.  There  was  no  resentment 
nor  malice  toward  him  in  her  heart.  Yet  the  future  seemed 
hopelessly  black  and  terrible  to  her. 


250  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  afternoon  before  Grant  Adams  was  to  leave  the  Nesbit 
home  he  was  allowed  to  come  down  stairs,  and  he  sat  with 
her  upon  the  side  porch,  all  screened  and  protected  by  vines 
that  led  to  her  father's  office.  Laura's  finger  was  in  a  book 
they  had  been  reading — it  was  "The  Pillars  of  Society." 
The  day  was  one  of  those  exquisite  days  in  mid-June,  and 
after  a  cooling  rain  the  air  was  clear  and  seemed  to  put  joy 
into  one's  veins. 

' 'How  modern  he  is — how  American — how  like  Harvey," 
said  the  young  man.  ' '  Ibsen  might  have  lived  right  here  in 
this  town,  and  written  that,"  he  added.  He  started  to 
raise  his  right  arm,  but  a  twinge  of  pain  reminded  him  that 
the  stump  was  bound,  so  he  raised  his  left  and  cried: 

"And  I  tell  you,  Laura — that's  what  I'm  on  earth  to 
fight — the  whole  infernal  system  of  pocket-picking  and  poor- 
robbing,  and  public  gouging  that  we  permit  under  the  profit 
system."  The  woman's  thoughts  were  upon  her  own  sor 
row,  but  she  called  herself  back  to  smile  and  reply: 

"All  right,  Grant — I'm  with  you.  We  may  have  to  draft 
father  and  commandeer  George  Brotherton,  and  start  out  as 
a  pirate  crew — but  I'm  with  you." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something,"  said  the  man.  "I've  not 
been  loafing  for  the  past  two  years.  I've  got  Harvey — the 
men  in  the  mines  and  smelter,  I  mean,  fairly  well  unionized, 
but  the  unions  are  nothing — nothing  ultimate — they  are 
only  temporary." 

"Well,"  returned  the  woman,  soberly,  "that's  some 
thing." 

The  man  made  no  answer.  With  his  free  hand  he  was 
ruffling  his  red  hair,  and  she  could  see  the  muscles  of  his 
jaw  working,  and  she  felt  his  great  mouth  harden  as  he 
flashed  his  blue  eyes  upon  her.  "Laura,"  he  cried,  "they 
may  whip  us  this  year.  For  a  while  they  may  scare  the  men 
into  voting  for  prosperity,  but  as  sure  as  we  both  live  we 
shall  see  these  times  and  these  issues  and  these  men  who  are 
promoting  this  devilish  conspiracy  eternally  damned — all  of 
them — the  issues,  the  times  and  the  men  who  are  leading. 
And  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Laura,  but,"  he  added  sol 
emnly,  "your  husband  must  take  his  punishment  with  the 
rest." 


GRANT  ADAMS  DISCOVERS  HIS  INSIDES     251 

They  sat  mute,  then  each  heard  the  plaintive  cry  of  a 
child  running  through  the  house.  "She  is  looking  for  me," 
said  Laura.  In  a  moment  a  little  wet-eyed  girl  was  in  her 
mother's  arms,  crying: 

"I  want  my  daddy — my  dear  daddy — I  want  him  to  come 
home — where  is  he?" 

Sue  sobbed  in  her  mother's  arms  and  held  up  her  little 
face  to  look  earnestly  into  the  beautiful  face  above  her,  as 
she  cried,  "Is  he  gone — Annie  Sands'  new  mamma  says  my 
papa's  never  coming  back — Oh,  I  want  my  daddy — I  want 
to  go  home." 

She  continued  calling  him  and  sobbing,  and  the  mother 
rose  to  take  the  child  away. 

"Laura!"  cried  Grant,  in  a  passionate  question.  He  saw 
the  weeping  child  and  the  grief -stricken  face  of  the  mother. 
In  an  instant  he  held  out  his  bony  left  hand  to  her  and  said 
gently :  ' '  God  help  you — God  help  you. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  WHICH  THE  DEVIL  FORMALLY  TAKES  THE  TWO  HINDERMOST 
AND  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  IN  HIS  LEDGER 

HARVEY  tried  sincerely  to  believe  in  Tom  Van  Dorn 
up  to  the  very  day  when  it  happened.  For  the  town 
had  accepted  him  gladly  and  unanimously  as  its 
most  distinguished  citizen.  But  when  the  town  read  in  the 
Times  one  November  day  after  he  had  come  home  from  his 
political  campaign  through  the  east  for  sound  money  and 
the  open  mills — a  campaign  in  which  Harvey  had  seen  him 
through  the  tinted  glasses  of  the  Harvey  Daily  Times  as  one 
of  the  men  who  had  saved  the  country — when  the  town  read 
that  cold  paragraph  beginning:  "A  decree  of  divorce  was 
issued  to-day  to  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  from  his  wife, 
Mrs.  Laura  Nesbit  Van  Dorn,  upon  the  ground  of  incom 
patibility  of  temperament  by  Judge  protem  Calvin  in  the 
district  court,"  and  ending  with  these  words:  "Mrs.  Van 
Dorn  declined  through  her  attorney  to  participate  in  a 
division  of  the  property  upon  any  terms  and  will  live  for 
the  present  with  her  daughter,  aged  five,  at  the  home  of  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  James  Nesbit  on  Elm  Street" — when  the  town  read 
that  paragraph,  Harvey  closed  its  heart  upon  Thomas  Van 
Dorn. 

Only  one  other  item  was  needed  to  steel  the  heart  of 
Harvey  against  its  idol,  and  that  item  they  found  upon  an 
other  page.  It  read,  "Wanted,  pupils  for  the  piano — Mrs. 
Laura  Van  Dorn,  Quality  Hill,  Elm  Street." 

Those  items  told  the  whole  story  of  the  deed  that 
Thomas  Van  Dorn  had  done.  If  he  had  felt  bees  sting  be 
fore  he  got  his  decree,  he  should  have  felt  vipers  gnawing  at 
his  vitals  afterward. 

But  he  was  free — the  burden  of  matrimony  was  lifted. 
He  felt  that  the  whole  world  of  women  was  his  now  for  the 
choosing,  and  of  all  that  world,  he  turned  in  wanton  fancy 

252 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  253 

to  the  beckoning  arms  of  Margaret  Fenn.  But  the  feeling  of 
freedom,  the  knowledge  that  he  could  speak  to  any  woman 
as  he  chose  and  no  one  could  gainsay  him  legally,  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  had  no  ties  which  the  law  recognized — 
and  with  him  law  was  the  synonym  of  morality — the  exu 
berant  sense  of  relief  from  a  bondage  that  was  oppressive  to 
him,  overbore  all  the  influence  of  the  town's  spirit  of  wrath 
in  the  air  about  him. 

As  for  the  morality  of  the  town  and  what  he  regarded  as 
its  prudery — he  scorned  it.  He  believed  he  could  live  it 
down ;  he  said  in  his  heart  that  it  was  merely  a  matter  of  a 
few  weeks,  a  few  months,  or  a  few  years  at  most,  before  they 
would  have  some  fresh  ox  to  gore  and  forget  all  about  him. 
He  was  sure  that  he  could  play  upon  the  individual  self-in 
terest  of  the  leaders  of  the  community  to  make  them  respect 
him  and  ignore  what  he  had  done.  But  what  he  had  done, 
did  not  bother  him  much.  It  was  done. 

He  seemed  to  be  free,  yet  was  he  free? 

Now  Thomas  Van  Dorn  was  thirty-eight  years  old  that 
autumn.  Whether  he  loved  the  woman  he  had  abandoned  or 
not,  she  was  a  part  of  his  life.  Counting  the  courtship  dur 
ing  which  he  and  this  woman  had  been  associated  closely, 
nearly  ten  years  of  his  life,  half  of  the  years  of  his  man 
hood — and  that  half  the  most  active  and  effective  part,  had 
been  spent  with  her.  A  million  threads  of  memory  in  his 
brain  led  to  her;  when  he  remembered  any  important  event 
in  his  life  during  those  ten  years,  alwaj^s  the  chain  of  associ 
ated  thought  led  back  to  the  image  of  her.  There  she  was, 
fixed  in  his  life ;  there  she  smiled  at  him  through  every  hour 
of  those  ten  years  of  their  life,  married  or  as  lovers  together. 

For  whom  God  had  joined,  not  Joseph  Calvin,  not  Joseph 
Calvin,  sitting  as  Judge  protem,  not  Joseph  Calvin  vested 
with  all  the  authority  of  the  great  commonwealth  in  which 
he  lived,  could  put  asunder.  That  was  curious.  At  times 
Thomas  Van  Dorn  was  conscious  of  this  phenomenon,  that 
he  was  free,  yet  bound,  and  that  while  there  was  no 
God,  and  the  law  was  the  final  word,  in  all  considerable 
things,  some  way  the  brain,  or  the  mind  that  is  fettered  to 
the  brain,  or  the  soul  that  is  built  upon  the  aspect  of  the 
mind  fettered  to  the  brain,  held  him  tethered  to  the  past. 


254  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

For  our  lives  are  not  material,  whatever  our  bodies  may  be. 
Our  lives  are  the  accumulations  of  consciousness,  the  assem 
bling  of  our  memories,  our  affections,  our  judgments,  our 
aspirations,  our  weaknesses,  our  strength — the  vast  sum  of 
all  our  impressions,  good  or  bad,  made  upon  a  material  plate 
called  the  brain.  The  brain  is  of  the  dust.  The  picture — 
which  is  a  human  life — is  of  the  spirit.  And  the  spirit  is  of 
God.  And  when  by  whatever  laws  of  chance  or  greed,  or 
high  purpose  or  low  desire  two  lives  are  joined  until  the 
cement  of  years  has  united  the  myriads  of  daily  sensations 
that  make  up  a  segment  of  these  lives,  they  are  thus  joined 
in  the  spirit  forever. 

Now  Thomas  Van  Dorn  went  about  his  free  life  day  by 
day,  glorying  in  his  liberty.  But  strands  of  his  old  life, 
floating  idly  and  unnoticed  through  minutes  of  his  hourly 
existence,  kept  tripping  him  and  bothering  him.  His  meals, 
his  clothes,  his  fixed  habits  of  work,  the  manifold  creature 
comforts  that  he  prized — all  the  associations  of  his  life  with 
home — came  to  him  a  thousand,  thousand  times  and  cut  lit 
tle  knife-edged  rents  in  the  fabric  of  his  new  freedom. 

And  he  would  have  said  a  year  before  that  it  was  physi 
cally  impossible  for  one  child — one  small,  fair-haired  child 
of  five,  with  pleading  face  and  eager  eyes — to  meet  a  man  so 
often  in  a  given  period  of  time,  as  Lila  met  him.  At  first  he 
had  avoided  her ;  he  would  duck  into  stores ;  hurry  up  stair 
ways,  or  hide  himself  in  groups  of  men  on  the  sidewalk  when 
he  saw  her  coming.  Then  there  came  a  time  when  he  knew 
that  the  little  figure  was  slipping  across  the  street  to  avoid 
him  because  his  presence  shamed  her  with  her  playmates. 

He  had  never  in  his  heart  believed  that  the  child  meant 
much  to  hirn.  She  was  merely  part  of  the  chain  that  held 
him,  and  yet  now  that  she  was  not  of  him  or  his  interests,  it 
seemed  to  Thomas  Van  Dorn  that  she  made  a  piteous  figure 
upon  the  street,  and  that  the  sadness  that  flitted  over  her 
face  when  she  saw  him,  in  some  way  reproached  him,  and 
yet — what  right  had  she  in  him — or  why  should  he  let  her 
annoy  him,  or  disturb  his  peace  and  the  happiness  that  his 
freedom  brought.  Materially  he  noticed  that  she  was  well 
fed,  well  dressed,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  well  housed. 
What  more  could  she  have — but  that  was  absurd.  He 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  255 

couldn't  wreck  his  life  for  the  mere  chance  that  a  child  should 
be  petted  a  little.  There  was  no  sense  in  such  a  proposition. 
And  Thomas  Van  Dorn's  life  was  regulated  by  sense — 
common  sense — horse  sense,  he  called  it. 

It  is  curious — and  scores  of  Tom  Van  Dorn  's  friends  won 
dered  at  it  then  and  have  marveled  at  it  since,  that  in  the 
six  months  which  elapsed  between  his  divorce  and  his  re 
marriage,  he  did  not  fathom  the  shallowness  and  pretense  of 
Margaret  Fenn.  But  he  did  not  fathom  them.  Her  glib 
talk  taken  mechanically  from  cheap  philosophy  about  being 
what  you  think  you  are,  about  shifting  moral  responsibility 
onto  good  intentions,  about  living  for  the  present  and  ignor 
ing  the  past  with  the  uncertain  future,  took  him  in  com 
pletely.  She  used  to  read  books  to  him,  sitting  in  the  glow 
of  her  red  lamp-shade — a  glow  that  brought  out  hidden  hints 
of  her  splendid  feline  body,  books  which  soothed  his  vanity 
and  dulled  his  mind.  In  that  day  he  fancied  her  his  intel 
lectual  equal.  He  thought  her  immensely  strong-minded, 
and  clear  headed.  He  contrasted  her  in  thought  with  the 
wife  he  had  put  away,  told  Margaret  that  Laura  was  always 
puling  about  duty  and  getting  her  conscience  pinched  and 
whining  about  it.  They  agreed  sitting  there  under  the  lamp, 
that  they  had  been  mates  in  some  far-off  jungle,  that  they 
had  been  parted  and  had  been  seeking  one  another  through 
eons,  and  that  when  their  souls  met  one  of  the  equations  of 
the  physical  universe  was  solved,  and  that  their  happiness 
was  the  adjustment  of  ages  of  wrong.  She  thought  him  the 
most  brilliant  of  men ;  he  deemed  her  the  most  wonderful  of 
women,  and  the  devil  checked  off  two  drunken  fools  in  his 
inventory. 

It  was  in  those  halcyon  days  of  his  courtship  of  Margaret 
Fenn,  when  he  felt  the  pride  of  conquest  of  another  soul  and 
body  strongly  upon  him,  that  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  be 
gan  to  acquire — or  perhaps  to  exhibit  noticeably — the  turkey 
gobbler  gait,  that  ever  afterwards  went  with  him,  and  became 
famous  as  the  Van  Dorn  Strut.  It  was  more  than  mere  knee 
action — though  knee  action  did  characterize  it  prominently. 
The  strut  properly  speaking  began  at  the  tip  of  his  hat — 
his  soft,  black  hat  that  sat  so  cockily  upon  his  head.  His 
head  was  thrown  back  as  though  he  had  been  pulled  by  a 


256  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

check-rein.  His  shoulders  swung  jauntily — more  than  jaun 
tily,  call  it  insolently — as  he  walked,  and  his  trunk  swayed 
with  some  stateliness  as  his  proud  hands  and  legs  per 
formed  their  grand  functions.  But  withal  he  bowed  and 
smiled — with  much  condescension — and  lifted  his  hat  high 
from  his  handsome  head,  and  when  women  passed  he  doffed 
it  like  a  flag  in  a  formal  salute,  and  while  his  body  spelled 
complacence,  his  face  never  lost  the  charm  and  grace  and 
courtesy  that  drew  men  to  him,  and  held  them  in  spite  of 
his  faults. 

One  bitter  cold  December  day,  when  the  wind  was  blowing 
sleet  down  Market  Street,  and  hardly  a  passer-by  darkened 
the  doors  of  the  stores,  the  handsome  Judge  sailed  easily 
into  the  Amen  Corner,  fumbled  over  the  magazines,  picked 
out  a  pocketful  of  cigars  from  the  case,  without  calling  Mr. 
Brotherton  who  was  in  the  rear  of  the  store  working  upon 
his  accounts,  lighted  a  cigar,  and  stood  looking  out  of  the 
frosted  window  at  the  deserted  gray  windy  street,  utterly 
ignoring  the  presence  of  Captain  Morton  who  was  pretend 
ing  to  be  deeply  buried  in  the  National  Tribune,  but  who  was 
watching  the  Judge  and  trying  to  summon  courage  to  speak. 
The  Judge  unbuttoned  his  modish  gray  coat  that  nearly 
reached  his  heels  and  put  his  hands  behind  him  for  a  moment, 
as  he  puffed  and  pondered — apparently  debating  something. 

"Judge,"  said  the  Captain  suddenly  and  then  the  Cap 
tain's  courage  fell  and  he  added,  "Bad  morning." 

"Yes,"  acquiesced  the  Judge  from  his  abstraction.  In  a 
long  pause  that  followed,  Captain  Morton  swallowed  at  least 
a  peck  of  Adam's  apples  that  kept  coming  up  to  choke  him, 
arid  then  he  cleared  his  throat  and  spoke: 

"Tom— Tom  Van  Dorn — look  around  here."  He  lowered 
his  voice  and  went  on,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you."  The  Cap 
tain  edged  over  on  the  bench. 

"Sit  down  here  a  minute — I've  been  wanting  to  see  you 
for  a  month."  Captain  Morton  spoke  all  but  in  a  whisper. 
The  Adam's  apple  kept  strangling  him.  The  Judge  saw 
that  the  old  man  was  wrestling  with  some  heavy  problem. 
He  turned,  and  looking  down  at  the  little  wizened  man, 
asked:  "Well,  Captain?" 

The  Captain  moistened  his  lips,  patted  his  toes  on  the 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  257 

floor,  and  twirled  his  fingers.  He  took  a  deep  breath  and 
said:  "Tom,  I've  known  you  since  you  were  twenty-one 
years  old.  Do  you  remember  how  we  took  you  in  the  first 
night  you  came  to  town — me  and  mother?  before  the 
hotel  was  done,  eh?"  A  smile  on  the  Judge's  face  em 
boldened  the  Captain.  "You've  got  brains,  Tom — lots  of 
brains — I  often  say  Tom  Van  Dorn  will  sit  in  the  big 
chair  at  the  White  House  yet — what  say?  Well,  Tom — " 
Now  there  was  the  place  to  say  it.  But  the  Captain's 
Adam's  apple  bobbed  convulsively  in  a  second  silence.  He 
decided  to  take  a  fresh  start:  "Tom,  you're  a  sensible 
man — ?  I  says  to  myself  I'm  going  to  have  a  plain  talk  to 
that  man.  He's  smart;  he'll  appreciate  it.  Just  the  other 
day — George  back  there,  and  John  Kollander  and  Dick  Bow 
man  and  old  man  Adams,  and  Joe  Calvin,  and  Kyle  Perry 
were  in  here  talking  and  I  says — Gentlemen,  that  boy's 
got  brains — lots  of  brains — eh?  arid  he's  a  prince;  'y  gory  a 
prince,  that's  what  Tom  Van  Dorn  is,  and  I  can  go  to  him — 
I  can  talk  to  him — what  say?"  The  Captain  was  on  the 
brink  again.  Slowly  there  mantled  over  the  face  of  the 
prince  the  gray  scum  of  a  fear.  And  the  scar  on  his  fore 
head  flashed  crimson.  The  Captain  saw  that  he  had  been 
anticipated.  He  began  patting  his  toes  on  the  floor.  Judge 
Van  Horn's  face  was  set  in  a  cement  of  resistance. 

"Well?"  barked  the  Judge.  The  little  man's  lips  dried, 
he  smiled  weakly,  and  licked  his  lips  and  said:  "It  was 
about  my  sprocket — my  Household  Horse — I  says,  Tom  Van 
Dorn  understands  it  if  you  gentlemen  don't  and  some  day 
him  and  me  will  talk  it  over  and  'y  gory — he'll  buy  some 
stock — he'll  back  me." 

The  Captain's  nervous  voice  had  lifted  and  he  was  talking 
so  that  the  clerk  and  Mr.  Brotherton  both  in  the  back  part  of 
the  store  might  hear.  The  cement  of  the  Judge's  counte 
nance  cracked  in  a  smile,  but  the  gray  mantle  of  fear  still 
fluttered  across  his  eyes. 

"All  right,  Captain,"  he  answered,  "some  other  time — 
not  now— I'm  in  a  hurry,"  and  went  strutting  out  into  the 
storm. 

Mr.  Brotherton  with  his  moon  face  shining  into  the  ledger 
laughed  a  great  clacking  laugh  and  got  up  from  his  stool  to 


258  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

coine  to  the  cigar  case,  saying,  ''Well,  say — Cap — if  you'd 
a'  went  on  with  what  you  started  out  to  say,  I'd  a'  give  fi' 
dollars — say,  I'd  a'  made  it  ten  dollars — say!"  And  he 
laughed  again  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  set  all  the  celluloid  in 
the  plush  covered,  satin  lined  toilet  cases  on  the  new  counter 
a-fiutter.  He  walked  down  the  store  with  elephantine  tread, 
as  he  laughed,  and  then  the  door  opened  and  Dr.  Nesbit 
came  in.  Five  months  had  put  a  perceptible  bow  into  his 
shoulders,  and  an  occasional  cast  of  uncertainty  into  his 
twinkling  eyes. 

Mr.  Brotherton  called  half  down  the  store,  "Say,  Doc — 
you  should  have  been  here  a  minute  ago,  and  seen  the  Cap 
tain  bristle  up  to  Tom  Van  Dorn  about  his  love  affair  and 
then  get  cold  feet  and  try  to  sell  him  some  Household  Horse 
stock."  The  Captain  grinned  sheepishly,  the  Doctor  patted 
the  Captain  affectionately  on  the  shoulder  and  chirped. 

"So  you  went  after  him,  did  you,  Ezry?"  The  loose  skin 
of  his  face  twitched,  "Poor  Tom — packing  up  his  career  in  a 
petticoat  and  going  forth  to  fuss  with  God — no  sense — no 
sense/'  piped  the  Doctor,  glancing  over  the  headlines  in  his 
Star.  The  Captain,  still  clinging  to  the  subject  that  had 
been  too  much  for  him,  remarked:  "Doc — don't  you  think 
some  one  ought  to  tell  him?"  The  Doctor  put  down  his 
paper,  stroked  his  pompadour  and  looking  over  his  glasses, 
answered : 

"Ezry — if  some  one  hasn't  told  him — no  one  ever  can.  I 
tried  to  tell  him  once  myself.  I  talked  pretty  middlin'  plain, 
Ezry."  He  was  speaking  softly,  then  he  piped  out,  "But 
what  a  man 's  heart  doesn't  tell  him,  his  friends  can 't.  Still, 
Ezry,  a  strong  friend  is  often  a  good  tonic  for  a  weak  heart." 
The  Doctor  looked  at  the  Captain,  then  concluded:  "That 
was  a  brave,  kind  act  you  tried  to  do — and  I  warrant 
you  got  it  to  him — some  way.  He's  a  keen  one — Ezry — a 
mighty  keen  one;  and  he  understood." 

Mr.  Brotherton  went  back  to  his  ledger;  the  Doctor 
plunged  into  the  Star,  the  Captain  folded  up  his  newspaper 
and  began  studying  the  trinkets  in  the  holiday  stock  in  the 
show  case  under  the  new  books.  A  comb  and  brush  with  tor 
toise  shell  backs  seemed  to  arrest  his  eyes.  "Doc,"  he 
mused,  "Christmas  never  comes  that  I  don't  think  of — her 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  259 

— mother!  I  guess  I'd  just  about  be  getting  that  comb  and 
brush  for  her."  The  Doctor  casually  looked  through  the 
show  case  and  saw  what  had  attracted  the  Captain. 
"Doc,"  again  the  Captain  spoke,  bending  over  the  case 
with  his  face  turned  from  his  auditor:  "You're  a  doctor 
and  are  supposed  to  know  lots.  Tell  me  this :  How  does  a 
man  break  it  to  a  woman  when  he  wants  to  leave  her — 
eh?"  Without  waiting  for  an  answer  the  Captain  went  on: 
"And  this  is  what  puzzles  me — how  does  he  get  used  to  an 
other  one — with  that  one  still  living?  You  tell  me  that. 
I'd  think  he'd  be  scared  all  the  time  that  he  would  do  some 
thing  the  way  his  first  wife  had  trained  him  not  to.  Of 
course,"  meditated  the  Captain,  "right  at  first,  I  suppose  a 
man  may  feel  a  little  coltish  and  all.  But,  Doc,  honest  and 
true,  when  mother  first  left  I  kind  of  thought — well,  I  used 
to  enjoy  swearing  a  little  before  we  was  married,  and  I  says 
to  myself  I  guess  I  may  as  well  have  a  damn  or  two  as  I  go 
along — but,  Doc,  I  can't  do  it.  Eh?  Every  time  I  set  off 
the  fireworks — she  fizzles;  I  can  see  mother  looking  at 
me  that  way."  The  old  man  went  on  earnestly:  "Tell 
me,  Doc,  you're  a  smart  man — how  Tom  Van  Dora  can 
do  it.  What  say?  'Y  gory  I'd  be  scared — right  now! 
And  if  I  thought  I  had  to  get  used  all  over  again  to  another 
woman,  and  her  ways  of  doing  things — say  of  setting  her 
bread  Friday  night,  and  having  a  hot  brick  for  her  feet  and 
putting  her  hair  in  her  teeth  when  she  done  it  up,  and  dos 
ing  the  children  with  sassafras  tea  in  spring — I'd  just 
naturally  take  to  the  woods,  eh?  And  as  for  learning  over 
again  all  the  peculiarities  of  a  new  set  of  kin  and  what  they 
all  like  to  eat  and  died  of,  and  how  they  all  treated  their 
first  wives,  and  who  they  married — Doc?  Doc?"  The  Cap 
tain  shook  a  dubious  and  doleful  head.  "Fourteen  years, 
Doc,"  sighed  the  Captain.  "Pretty  happy  years — children 
coming  on, — trouble  visiting  us  with  the  rest ;  sorrow — hap 
piness — skimping  and  saving;  her  a-raking  and  scraping  to 
make  a  good  appearance,  and  make  things  do ;  me  trying  one 
thing  and  another,  to  make  our  fortune  and  her  always  kind 
and  encouraging,  and  hopeful;  death  standing  between  us 
and  both  of  us  sitting  there  by  the  kitchen  stove  trying  to 
make  up  some  kind  of  prayer  to  comfort  the  other.  Four- 


260  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

teen  years  of  it,  Doc — her  and  me,  and  her  so  patient,  so 
forbearing — Doc — you're  a  smart  man — tell  me,  Doc,  how 
did  Tom  Van  Dorn  get  around  to  actually  doing  it?  What 
say?" 

The  Doctor  waved  his  folded  paper  in  an  impatient  gesture 
at  the  Captain. 

"We  are  all  products  of  our  yesterdays,  Ezry;  we  are 
what  we  were,  and  we  will  be  what  we  were.  Man  is  queer. 
Sometimes  out  of  the  depth  of  him  a  god  rises — sometimes  it's 
a  beast.  I  've  sat  by  the  bed  and  seen  life  gasp  into  being ; 
I've  stood  in  the  ranks  and  fought  with  men  as  you  have, 
and  have  seen  them  fight  and  then  again  have  seen  them 
turn  tail  like  cowards.  I  have  sat  by  the  bed  and  seen  life 
sigh  into  the  dust.  What  is  life— what  is  the  God  that 
quickens  and  directs  us, — why  and  how  and  whence? — 
Ezry  Morton,  man — I  don't  know.  And  as  for  Tom — into 
that  roaring  hell  of  lust  and  lying  and  cheap  parching  pride 
where  he  is  plunging — why,  Ezry,  I  could  almost  cry  for  the 
fool;  the  damned  beforehand  fool!" 

As  the  Doctor  went  whistling  homeward  through  the  storm 
that  winter  night  he  wondered  how  many  more  months  the 
black  spell  of  grief  and  despair  would  cover  his  daughter. 
Five  months  had  passed  since  that  summer  day  when  her 
home  had  fallen.  He  knew  how  tragic  her  struggle  was  to 
fit  herself  into  her  new  environment.  She  was  dwelling, 
but  not  living  in  the  Nesbit  home.  It  was  the  Nesbit  home; 
a  kindly  abode,  but  not  her  home.  Her  home  was  gone. 
The  severed  roots  of  her  life  kept  stirring  in  her  memory — 
in  her  heart,  and  outwardly,  her  spirit  showed  a  withered 
and  unhappy  being,  trying  to  rebuild  life,  to  readjust  itself 
after  the  shock  that  all  but  kills.  The  Doctor  realized  what 
an  agony  the  new  growth  was  bringing,  and  that  night, 
stirred  somewhat  to  somber  meditation  by  Captain  Morton's 
reflections,  the  Doctor's  tune  was  a  doleful  little  tune  as  he 
whistled  into  the  wind.  Excepting  Kenyon  Adams,  who 
still  came  daily  bringing  his  violin  and  was  rapidly  learning 
all  that  she  knew  of  the  theory  of  music,  Laura  Van  Dorn 
had  no  interest  in  life  outside  of  her  family.  When  the 
Adamses  came  to  dinner  as  frequently  they  came — Laura 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  261 

seemed  to  feel  no  constraint  with  them.  Grant  had  even 
made  her  laugh  with  stories  of  Dick  Bowman's  struggles  to 
be  a  red  card  socialist,  and  to  vote  the  straight  socialist 
ticket  and  still  keep  in  ward  politics  in  which  he  had  been  a 
local  heeler  for  nearly  twenty  years.  Laura  was  interested 
in  the  organization  of  the  unions,  and  though  the  Doctor 
carped  at  it  and  made  fun  of  Grant,  it  was  largely  to  stir  up 
a  discussion  in  which  his  daughter  would  take  a  vital  in 
terest. 

Grant  was  getting  something  more  than  a  local  reputation 
in  labor  circles  as  an  agitator,  and  wao  in  demand  as  an  or 
ganizer  in  different  parts  of  the  valley.  He  worked  at  his 
trade  more  or  less,  having  rigged  up  a  steel  device  on  the 
stump  of  his  right  forearm  that  would  hold  a  saw,  a  plane  or 
a  hammer.  But  he  was  no  longer  a  boss  carpenter  at  the 
mines.  His  devotion  to  the  men  and  in  the  work  they  were 
doing  seemed  to  the  Nesbits  to  awaken  in  their  daughter  a 
new  interest  in  life,  and  so  they  made  many  obvious  ex 
cuses  to  have  the  Adamses  about  the  Nesbit  home. 

Kenyon  was  growing  into  a  pale,  dreamy  child  with  won 
derful  eyes,  lustrous,  deep,  thoughtful  and  kind.  He  was 
music  mad,  and  read  all  the  poetry  in  the  Nesbit  library— 
and  the  Doctor  loved  poetry  as  many  men  love  wine.  Hero- 
tales  and  mythoiogy,  romances  and  legends  Kenyon  read  day 
after  day  between  his  hours  of  practice,  and  for  diversion  the 
boy  sat  before  the  fire  or  in  the  sun  of  a  chilly  afternoon, 
retailing  them  in  such  language  as  little  Lila  could  under 
stand.  So  in  the  black  night  of  sorrow  that  enveloped  her, 
Laura  Nesbit  often  spent  an  hour  with  Grant  Adams,  and 
talked  of  much  that  was  near  her  heart. 

He  was  strong,  sometimes  she  thought  him  coarse  and  raw. 
He  talked  the  jargon  of  the  agitator  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  dervish  and  the  vernacular  of  the  mine  and  the  shop  and 
the  forge.  But  in  him  she  could  see  the  fire  of  a  mad  con 
suming  passion  for  humanity. 

During  those  days  of  shame  and  misery,  when  the  old  in 
terests  of  life  were  dying  in  her  heart,  interests  upon  which 
she  had  builded  since  her  childhood — the  interests  of  home, 
of  children,  of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  to  which  in  joy  she 


262  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

had  consecrated  herself,  she  listened  often  to  Grant  Adams. 
Until  there  came  into  her  life  slowly  and  feebly,  and 
almost  without  her  conscious  realization  of  it,  a  new  vision, 
a  new  hppe,  a  new  path  toward  usefulness  that  makes  for  the 
only  happiness. 

As  the  Doctor  went  whistling  into  the  storm  that  December 
night,  he  went  over  in  his  mind  rather  seriously  the  meaning 
and  the  direction  and  the  final  outcome  of  those  small,  un 
conscious  buddings  of  interest  in  social  problems  that  he  saw 
putting  forth  in  his  daughter's  mind.  Above  everything 
else,  he  was  not  a  reformer.  He  hated  the  reformer  type. 
But  he  preferred  to  see  her  interested  in  the  work  of  Grant 
Adams — even  though  he  considered  Grant  mildly  cracked 
and  felt  that  his  growing  power  in  the  valley  was  dangerous 
—rather  than  to  see  her  under  the  black  pall  that  enveloped 
her. 

It  was  early  in  the  evening  as  the  Doctor  went  up  the  hill. 
He  passed  Judge  Van  Dora,  striding  along  and  saw  him 
turn  into  Congress  Street  to  visit  his  lady  love.  The  Judge 
carried  a  large  roll  of  architect's  plans  under  his  arm.  The 
Doctor  nodded  to  the  Judge,  and  the  Judge  rather  proud 
that  he  was  free  and  did  not  have  to  slink  to  his  lady's  bower, 
returned  a  gracious  good  evening,  and  his  tall,  straight  figure 
went  prancing  down  the  street.  When  the  Doctor  entered 
his  home,  he  found  Laura  and  Lila  sitting  by  the  open  fire. 
The  child  was  in  her  night  gown  and  they  were  discussing 
Santa  Glaus.  Lila  was  saying : 

"Kenyon  told  me  Santa  Glaus  was  your  father?" 
Before  the  mother  could  reply  the  little  voice  went  on : 
"I  wonder  if  my  Santa  Glaus  will  come  this  year — will  he, 
mother? — Why  doesn't  father  ever  come  to  us,  mother — 
why  doesn't  he  play  with  me  when  I  see  him?" 

Now  there  is  the  story  of  the  absent  one  that  parents  tell 
— the  legend  about  God  and  Heaven  and  the  angels — a  beau 
tiful  and  comforting  legend  it  is  for  small  minds,  and  being 
merciful,  God  may  in  His  own  way  bring  us  to  realize  it,  in 
deed  and  in  truth.  When  the  lonely  father  or  the  broken 
hearted  mother  tells  the  desolate  child  that  legend,  child 
hood  finds  surcease  there  for  its  sorrow.  But  when  there  is 
no  God,  no  Heaven,  no  angels  to  whom  the  absent  one  has 


THE  DEVIL  CLOSES  AN  ACCOUNT  263 

gone,  what  then  do  deserted  mothers  say? — or  dishonored 
fathers  answer  ?  What  surcease  for  its  sorrow  has  the  little 
lonely,  aching  heart  in  that  sad  case  ?  What  then,  "ye  merry 
gentlemen  that  nothing  may  dismay ' '  f 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  WHICH  WE  SEE  TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS  THEREOF 

IT  was  an  old  complaint  in  Harvey  that  the  Harvey 
Tribune  was  too  much  of  a  bulletin  of  the  doings  of  the 
Adams  family  and  their  friends.  But  when  a  man  sets 
all  the  type  on  a  paper,  writes  all  the  editorials  and  gets  all 
the  news  he  may  be  pardoned  if  he  takes  first  such  news  as  is 
near  his  hand.  Thus  in  the  May  that  followed  events  set 
down  in  the  last  chapter  we  find  in  the  Tribune  a  few  items 
of  interest  to  the  readers  of  this  narrative.  We  learn  for 
instance  that  Captain  Ezra  Morton  who  is  introducing  the 
Nonesuch  Sewing  Machine,  paid  his  friends  in  Prospect 
school  district  a  visit ;  that  Jasper  Adams  has  been  promoted 
to  superintendent  of  deliveries  in  Wright  &  Perry's  store; 
that  Kenyon  Adams  entertained  his  friends  in  the  Fifth 
Grade  of  the  South  Harvey  schools  with  a  violin  solo  on  the 
last  day  of  school ;  that  Grant  Adams  had  been  made  assistant 
to  the  secretary  of  the  National  Building  Trades  Associa 
tion  in  South  Harvey;  that  Mr.  George  Brotherton  with 
Miss  Emma  Morton  and  Martha  and  Ruth  had  enjoyed  a 
pleasant  visit  with  the  Adamses  Sunday  afternoon  and  had 
resumed  an  enjoyable  buggy  ride  after  partaking  of  a  chicken 
dinner.  In  the  editorial  column  were  some  reflections  evi 
dently  in  Mr.  Left's  most  lucid  style  and  a  closing  paragraph 
containing  this:  "Happiness  and  character,"  said  the  Peach 
Blow  Philosopher,  ''are  inseparable:  but  how  easy  it  is  to 
be  happy  in  a  great,  beautiful  house;  or  to  be  unhappy  if  it 
comes  to  that  in  a  great,  beautiful  house:  Environment  may 
influence  character;  but  all  the  good  are  not  poor,  nor  all  the 
rich  bad.  Therefore,  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher  takes  to 
the  woods.  He  is  willing  to  leave  something  to  the  Lord 
Almighty  and  the  continental  congress.  Selah!" 

As  Dr.  Nesbit  sat  reading  the  items  above  set  forth  upon 

264 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS        265 

the  broad  new  veranda  of  the  residence  that  he  was  so  proud 
to  call  his  home,  he  smiled.  It  was  late  afternoon.  He  had 
done  a  hard  day's  work — some  of  it  among  the  sick,  some  of 
it  among  the  needy — the  needy  in  the  Doctor 's  bright  lexicon 
being  those  who  tried  to  persuade  him  that  they  needed 
political  offices.  "I  cheer  up  the  sick,  encourage  the  needy, 
pray  for  'em  both,  and  sometimes  for  their  own  good  have 
to  lie  to  'em  all, ' '  he  used  to  say  in  that  day  when  the  duties 
of  his  profession  and  the  care  of  his  station  as  a  ruling  boss 
in  politics  were  oppressing  him.  Dr.  Nesbit  played  politics 
as  a  game.  But  he  placed  always  to  win. 

"Old  Linen  Pants  is  a  bland  old  scoundrel,"  declared 
Public  Opinion,  about  the  corridors  of  the  political  hotel  at 
the  capital.  "But  he  is  as  ruthless  as  iron,  as  smooth  as  oil, 
and  as  bitter  as  poison  when  he  sets  his  head  on  a  proposition. 
Buy? — he  buys  men  in  all  the  ways  the  devil  teaches  them 
to  sell — offices,  power,  honor,  cash  in  hand,  promises,  pres 
tige — anything  that  a  man  wants,  Old  Linen  Pants  will 
trade  for,  and  then  get  that  man.  Humorous  old  devil, 
too,"  quoth  Public  Opinion.  "Laughs,  quotes  scripture, 
throws  in  a  little  Greek  philosophy,  and  knows  all  the  new 
stories,  but  never  forgets  whose  play  it  is,  nor  what  cards 
are  out. ' '  Thus  was  he  known  to  others. 

But  as  he  remained  longer  and  longer  in  the  game,  as  his 
fourth  term  as  state  Senator  began  to  lengthen,  the  game 
here  and  there  began  to  lose  in  his  mouth  something  of  its 
earlier  savor.  That  afternoon  as  he  sat  on  the  veranda 
overlooking  the  lawn  shaded  by  the  elm  trees  of  his  greatest 
pride,  Dr.  Nesbit  was  discoursing  to  Mrs.  Nesbit,  who  was 
sewing  and  paid  little  heed  to  his  animadversions;  it  was 
a  soliloquy  rather  than  a  conversation — a  soliloquy  accom 
panied  by  an  obligate  of  general  mental  disagreement  from 
the  wife  of  his  bosom,  who  expressed  herself  in  sniffs  and 
snorts  and  scornful  staccato  interjections  as  the  soliloquy 
ran  on.  Here  are  a  few  bars  of  it  transcribed  for  begin 
ners: 

From  the  Doctor's  solo:  "Heigh-ho — ho  hum — Two 
United  States  Senators,  one  slightly  damaged  Governor, 
marked  down,  five  congressmen  and  three  liars,  one  supreme 
court  justice,  also  a  liar,  a  working  interest  in  a  second, 


266  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  a  slight  equity  in  a  third;  organization  of  the  Senate, 
speaker  of  the  house, — forty  liars  and  thirty  thieves — that's 
my  political  assets,  my  dear." 

"I  wish  you'd  quit  politics,  Doctor,  and  attend  to  your 
practice,"  this  by  way  of  accompaniment  from  Mrs.  Nesbit. 
The  Doctor  was  in  a  playful  and  facetious  mood  that  pleas 
ant  afternoon. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  reached  up  in  the  air  with 
outstretched  arms,  clapped  his  hands  three  times,  gayly, 
kicked  his  shoe-heels  three  times  at  the  end  of  his  short 
little  legs,  smiled  and  proceeded:  "Liabilities  of  James 
Nesbit,  dealer  in  public  grief,  licensed  dispenser  of  private 
joy,  purveyor  of  Something  Equally  Good,  item  one,  forty- 
nine  gentlemen  who  think  they've  been  promised  thirty-six 
-jobs — but  they  are  mistaken,  they  have  been  told  only  that 
I'll  do  what  I  can  for  them — which  is  true;  item  two,  three 
hundred  friends  who  want  something  and  may  ask  at  any 
minute;  item  three,  seventy-five  men  who  will  be  or  have 
been  primed  up  by  the  loathed  opposition  to  demand  jobs; 
item  four,  Tom  Van  Dorn  who  is  as  sure  as  guns  to  think  in 
about  a  year  he  has  to  have  a  vindication  by  running  for 
another  term;  item  five — " 

"He  can't  have  it,"  from  Mrs.  Nesbit,  and  then  the  piping 
voice  went  on : 

"Item  six,  a  big,  husky  fight  in  Greeley  county  for  the 
maharaja  of  Harvey  and  the  adjoining  provinces."  A  deep 
sigh  rose  from  the  Doctor,  then  followed  more  clapping  of 
hands  and  kicking  of  heels  and  some  slapping  of  suspenders, 
as  the  voices  of  Kenyon  and  Lila  came  into  the  veranda  from 
the  lawn,  and  the  Doctor  cast  up  his  accounts:  "Let's  see 
now — naught's  a  naught  and  figure's  a  figure  and  carry  six, 
and  subtract  the  profits  and  multiply  the  trouble  and  yp.i 
have  a  busted  community.  Correct,"  he  piped,  "Bedelia, 
my  dear,  observe  a  busted  community.  Your  affectionate 
lord  and  master,  kind  husband,  indulgent  father,  good  citi 
zen  gone  but  not  forgotten.  How  are  the  mighty  fallen." 

"Doctor,"  snapped  Mrs.  Nesbit,  "don't  be  a  fool;  tell 
me,  James,  will  Tom  Van  Dorn  want  to  run  again?" 

Making  a  basket  with  his  hands  for  the  back  of  his  head 
the  Doctor  answered  slowly,  "Ho-ho-ho!  Oh,  I  don't  know 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS         267 

— I  should  say — yes.  Hell  just  about  have  to  run — for  a 
vindication. ' ' 

"Well,  you'll  not  support  him!  I  say  you'll  not  support 
him,"  Mrs.  Nesbit  decided,  and  the  Doctor  echoed  blandly: 

"Then  I'll  not  support  him.  Where's  Laura?"  he  asked 
gently. 

* '  She  went  down  to  South  Harvey  to  see  about  that  kinder 
garten  she's  been  talking  of.  She  seems  almost  cheerful 
about  the  way  Kenyon  is  getting  on  with  his  music.  She  says 
the  child  reads  as  well  as  she  now  and  plays  everything  on  the 
violin  that  she  can  play  on  the  piano.  " Doctor,"  added 
Mrs.  Nesbit  meditatively,  "now  about  those  oriental  rugs  we 
were  going  to  put  upstairs — don't  you  suppose  we  could 
take  the  money  we  were  going  to  put  there  and  help  Laura 
with  that  kindergarten?  Perhaps  she'd  take  a  real  interest 
in  life  through  those  children  down  there."  The  wife  hesi 
tated  and  asked,  "Would  you  do  it?" 

The  Doctor  drummed  his  chair  arm  thoughtfully,  then 
put  his  thumbs  in  his  suspenders.  "Greater  love  than  this 
hath  no  woman  shown,  my  dear — that  she  gives  up  oriental 
rugs  for  a  kindergarten — by  all  means  give  it  to  her." 

"James,  Lila  still  grieves  for  her  father." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Doctor  sadly,  "and  Henry  Fenn  was 
in  the  office  this  morning  begging  me  to  give  him  something 
that  would  kill  his  thirst." 

The  doctor  brought  his  hands  down  emphatically  on  his 
chair  arms.  "Duty,  Bedelia,  is  the  realest  obligation  in 
the  world.  Here  are  Lila  and  Henry  Fenn.  What  a  miser 
able  lot  of  tommy  rot  about  soul-mating  Tom  and  this  Fenn 
woman  conjured  up  to  get  away  from  their  duty  to  child 
and  husband.  They  have  swapped  a  place  with  the  angels 
for  a  right  to  wallow  with  the  hogs ;  that's  what  all  their  fine 
talking  amounts  to."  The  Doctor's  shrill  voice  rose. 
"They  don't  fool  me.  They  don't  fool  any  one;  they  don't 
even  fool  each  other.  I  tell  you,  my  dear,"  he  chirped  as 
he  rose  from  his  chair,  "I  never  saw  one  of  those  illicit  love 
affairs  in  life  or  heard  of  it  in  literature  that  was  not  just 
plain,  old  fashion,  downright,  beastly  selfishness.  Duty  is  a 
greater  thing  in  life  than  what  the  romance  peddlers  call 
love." 


268  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Doctor  stood  looking  at  his  wife  questioningly — wait 
ing  for  some  approving  response.  She  kept  on  sewing.  ' '  Oh 
you  Satterthwaites  with  hearts  of  marble/'  he  cried  as  he 
patted  the  cast  iron  waves  of  her  hair  and  went  chuckling 
into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Nesbit  was  aroused  from  her  reverie  by  the  rattle  of 
the  Adams  buggy.  When  it  drew  up  to  the  curb  Laura 
and  Grant  climbed  out  and  came  up  the  walk.  Laura  wore 
a  simple  summer  dress  that  brought  out  all  the  exquisite 
coloring  of  her  skin,  and  made  her  light  hair  shine  in  a 
kind  of  haloed  glory.  It  had  been  months  since  the  mother 
had  seen  in  her  daughter's  face  such  a  smile  as  the  daughter 
gave  to  the  man  beside  her — red-faced,  angular,  hard  mus 
cled,  in  his  dingy  blue  carpenter 's  working  clothes  with  his 
measuring  rule  and  pencil  sticking  from  his  apron  pocket, 
and  with  his  crippled  arm  tipped  by  its  steel  tool- 
holder. 

"  Grant  is  going  to  take  that  box  of  Lila's  toys  down  to  the 
kindergarten,  mother,"  she  explained. 

When  they  had  disappeared  up  the  stairs  Mrs.  Nesbit  could 
hear  them  on  the  floor  above  and  soon  the  heavy  feet  of  the 
man  carrying  a  burden  were  on  the  stairs  and  in  another 
minute  the  young  woman  was  saying: 

" Leave  them  by  the  teacher's  desk,  Grant/'  and  as  he 
untied  the  horse,  she  called,  "Now  you  will  get  that  door 
in  to-night  without  fail — won't  you?  I'll  be  down  and  we'll 
put  in  the  south  partition  in  the  morning."  As  she  turned 
from  the  door  she  greeted  her  mother  with  a  smile  and 
dropped  wearily  into  a  chair. 

"Oh  mother,"  she  cried,  "it's  going  to  be  so  fine.  Grant 
has  the  room  nearly  finished  and  he's  interesting  the  wives 
of  the  union  men  in  South  Harvey  and  George  Brotherton 
is  going  to  give  us  every  month  all  the  magazines  and  periodi 
cals  that  are  not  returnable  and  George  brought  down  a 
lot  of  Christmas  numbers  of  illustrated  papers,  and  we're 
cutting  the  bright  pictures  out  and  pinning  them  on  the 
wall  and  George  himself  worked  with  us  all  afternoon. 
George  says  he  is  going  to  make  every  one  of  his  lodges  con 
tribute  monthly  to  the  kindergarten — he  belongs  to  every 
thing  but  the  Ladies  of  the  G.  A.  R. — "  she  smiled  and 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS        269 

her  mother  smiled  with  her, — "and  Grant  says  the  unions 
are  going  to  pay  half  of  the  salary  of  the  extra  teacher. 
That  makes  it  easier. ' ' 

"Well,  Laura,  don't  you  think—" 

But  her  daughter  interrupted  her.  "Now,  mother,"  she 
went  on,  "don't  you  stop  me  till  I'm  done — for  this  is  the 
best  yet.  Morty  Sands  came  down  to-day  to  help — "  Laura 
laughed  a  little  at  her  mother's  surprised  glance,  "and  Morty 
promised  to  give  us  $200  for  the  kindergarten  just  as  soon  as 
he  can  worm  it  out  of  his  father  for  expense  money."  She 
drew  in  a  deep,  tired  breath,  "There,"  she  sighed,  "that's 
all." 

Her  own  child  came  up  and  the  mother  caught  the  little 
girl  and  began  playing  with  her,  tying  her  hair  ribbon, 
smoothing  out  her  skirts,  rubbing  a  dirt  speck  from  her 
nose,  and  cuddling  the  little  one  rapturously  in  her  arms. 
When  the  two  women  were  alone,  Laura  sat  on  the  veranda 
steps  with  her  head  resting  upon  her  mother's  knee.  The 
mother  touched  the  soft  hair  and  said:  "Laura,  you  are 
very  tired." 

"Yes,  mother,"  the  daughter  answered.  "The  mothers 
are  so  hungry  for  help  down  there  in  South  Harvey,  and," 
she  added  a  little  drearily — ' '  so  am  I ;  so  we  are  speaking  a 
common  language. ' ' 

She  nestled  her  head  in  the  lap  above  her.  "And  I'm  go 
ing  to  find  something  worth  doing — something  fine  and 
good." 

She  watched  the  lazy  clouds,  "You  know  I'm  glad  about 
Morty  Sands.  Grant  thinks  Morty  sincerely  wants  to 
amount  to  something  real — to  help  and  be  more  than  a  money 
grubber!  If  the  old  spider  would  just  let  him  out  of  the 
web!"  The  mother  stared  at  her  daughter  a  second. 

"Well,  Laura,  about  the  only  money  grubbing  Morty  seems 
to  be  doing  is  grubbing  money  out  of  his  father  to  maintain 
his  race  horse." 

The  daughter  smiled  and  the  mother  went  on  with  her 
work.  "Mother,  did  you  know  that  little  Ruth  Morton  is 
going  to  begin  taking  vocal  lessons  this  summer?"  The 
mother  shook  her  head.  "Grant  says  Mr.  Brotherton's  pay 
ing  for  it.  He  thinks  she  has  a  wonderful  voice." 


270  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

" Voice — "  cut  in  Mrs.  Nesbit,  "why  Laura,  the  child's 
only  fourteen — voice — !" 

Laura  answered,  "Yes,  mother,  but  you've  never  heard 
her  sing;  she  has  a  beautiful,  deep,  contralto  voice,  but  the 
treble  above  'C'  is  a  trifle  squeaky,  and  Mr.  Brotherton  says 
he's  'going  to  have  it  oiled';  so  she's  to  'take  vocal'  regu 
larly." 

On  matters  musical  Mrs.  Nesbit  believed  she  had  a  right 
to  know  the  whole  truth,  so  she  asked:  "Where  does  Sir. 
Brotherton  come  in,  Laura?" 

"Oh,  mother,  he's  always  been  a  kind  of  god-father  to 
those  girls.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  Emma's  been  play 
ing  with  that  funeral  choir  of  yours  arid  Mr.  Brotherton  ?s 
all  these  years,  only  because  he  got  her  into  it,  and  Grant 
says  he's  kept  Mrs.  Herdicker  from  discharging  Martha  for 
two  years,  just  by  sheer  nerve.  Of  course  Grant  gets  it 
from  Mr.  Brotherton  but  Grant  says  Martha's  so  pretty  she's 
such  a  trial  to  Mrs.  Herdicker!  I  like  Martha,  but,  mother, 
she  just  thinks  she  should  be  carried  round  on  a  chip  because 
of  her  brown  eyes  and  red  hair  and  dear  little  snubby  nose. 
Grant  says  Mr.  Brotherton  is  trying  to  get  the  money  some 
way  to  float  the  Captain's  stock  company  and  put  his 
Household  Horse  on  the  market.  I  think  Mr.  Brotherton  is 
a  fine  man,  mother — he's  always  doing  things  to  help  peo 
ple." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  folded  up  her  work,  and  began  to  rise. 
"George  Brotherton,  Laura,"  said  her  mother  as  she  stood 
at  full  length  looking  down  upon  her  child,  "has  a  voice  of 
an  angel,  and  perhaps  the  heart  of  a  god,  but  he  will  eat 
onions  and  during  the  twenty  years  I've  been  singing  with 
him  I've  never  known  him  to  speak  a  correct  sentence. 
Common,  Laura — common  as  dishwater." 

As  Laura  Van  Dorn  talked  the  currents  of  life  eddying 
about  her  were  reflected  in  what  she  said.  But  she  could 
not  know  the  spirit  that  was  moving  the  currents;  for  with 
a  neighborly  shyness  those  who  were  gathering  about  her 
were  careful  to  seem  casual  in  their  kindness,  and  she  could 
not  know  how  deeply  they  were  moved  to  help  her.  Kinder 
gartens  were  hardly  in  George  Brotherton 's  line;  yet  he  un 
tied  old  bundles  of  papers,  ransacked  his  shop  and  brought  a 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS         271 

great  heap  of  old  posters  and  picture  papers  to  her.  Captain 
Morton  brought  a  beloved  picture  of  his  army  Colonel  to 
adorn  the  room,  and  deaf  John  Kollander,  who  had  a  low 
opinion  of  the  ignorant  foreigners  and  the  riff-raff  and  scum 
of  society,  which  Laura  was  trying  to  help,  wished  none  the 
less  to  help  her,  and  came,  down  one  day  with  a  flag  for 
the  schoolroom  and  insisted  upon  making  a  speech  to  the 
tots  about  patriotism.  He  made  nothing  clear  to  them  but 
he  made  it  quite  clear  to  himself  that  they  were  getting 
the  flag  as  a  charity,  which  they  little  deserved,  and  never 
would  return.  And  to  Laura  he  conveyed  the  impression 
that  he  considered  her  mission  a  madness,  but  for  her  and 
the  sorrow  which  she  was  fighting,  he  had  appreciative 
tenderness.  He  must  have  impressed  his  emotions  upon  his 
wife  for  she  came  down  and  talked  elaborately  about  starting 
a  cooking  school  in  the  building,  and  after  planning  it  all  out, 
went  away  and  forgot  it.  The  respectable  iron  gray  side- 
whiskers  of  Ahab  Wright  once  relieved  the  dingy  school 
room,  when  Ahab  looked  in  and  the  next  day  Kyle  Perry 
on  behalf  of  the  firm  of  Wright  &  Perry  came  trudging  into 
the  kindergarten  with  a  huge  box  which  he  said  contained  a 
p-p-p-p-p-pat-a-p-p-p-pppat-pat — "  here  he  swallowed  and 
started  all  over  and  finally  said  p-p-patent,"  and  then  started 
out  on  a.  long  struggle  with  the  word  swing,  but  he  never 
finished  it,  and  until  Laura  opened  the  box  she  thought  Mr. 
Perry  had  brought  her  a  soda  fountain.  But  Nathan  Perry, 
his  son,  who  came  wandering  down  to  the  place  one  after 
noon  with  Anne  Sands,  put  up  the  swing,  and  suggested  a 
half  dozen  practical  devices  for  the  teacher  to  save  time  and 
labor  in  her  work,  while  Anne  Sands  in  her  teens  looked  on 
as  one  who  observes  a  major  god  completing  a  bungling  job 
of  the  angels  on  a  newly  contrived  world. 

Sometimes  coming  home  from  his  day's  work  Amos  Adams 
would  drop  in  for  a  chat  with  the  tired  teacher,  and  he 
refreshed  her  curiously  with  his  quiet  manner  and  his  un- 
sure  otherworldliness,  and  his  tough,  unyielding  optimism. 
He  had  no  lectures  for  the  children.  He  would  watch  them 
at  their  games,  try  to  play  with  them  himself  in  a  pathetic, 
old-fashioned  way,  telling  them  fairy  stories  of  an  elder 
and  a  grimmer  day  than  ours.  Sometimes  Doctor  Nesbit, 


272  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

coming  for  Laura  in  his  buggy,  would  find  Amos  in  the 
school  room,  and  they  would  fall  to  their  everlasting  debate 
upon  the  reality  of  time  and  space  with  the  Doctor  enjoying 
hugely  his  impious  attempt  to  couch  the  terminology  of 
abstract  philosophy  in  his  Indiana  vernacular. 

Lida  Bowman  bringing  her  little  brood  sometimes  would 
sit  silently  watching  the  children,  and  look  at  Laura  as  if 
about  to  speak,  but  she  always  went  away  with  her  mind  un 
relieved.  Violet  Ilogan,  who  brought  her  beruffled  and 
bedizened  eldest,  made  up  for  Mrs.  Bowman's  reticence. 
Moreover  Violet  brought  other  mothers  and  there  was  much 
talk  on  the  topics  of  the  day — talk  that  revealed  to  Laura 
Nesbit  a  whole  philosophy  that  was  new  to  her — the  help 
fulness  of  the  poor  to  the  poor. 

But  if  others  brought  to  Laura  Van  Dorn  material 
strength  and  spiritual  comfort  in  her  enterprise,  Grant 
Adams  waved  the  wand  of  his  steel  claw  over  the  kindergar 
ten  and  made  it  live.  For  he  was  a  power  in  the  Wahoo 
Valley.  Her  friends  knew  that  his  word  gave  the  kinder 
garten  the  endorsement  of  every  union  there  and  thus  brought 
to  it  mothers  with  children  and  with  problems  as  well  as 
children,  whom  Laura  Van  Dorn  otherwise  never  could 
have  reached.  The  unions  made  a  small  donation  monthly 
to  the  work  which  gave  them  the  feeling  of  proprietorship 
in  the  place  and  the  mothers  and  children  came  in  self- 
respect.  But  if  Grant  gave  life  to  the  kindergarten,  he  got 
more  than  he  gave.  For  the  restraining  hand  of  Laura 
Van  Dorn  always  was  upon  him,  and  his  friends  in  the 
Valley  came  to  realize  her  friendship  for  them  and  their 
cause.  They  knew  that  many  a  venture  of  Grant's  Utopia 
would  have  been  a  wild  goose  chase  but  for  the  wisdom  of 
her  counsel.  And  the  two  came  to  rely  upon  each  other 
unconsciously. 

So  in  the  ugly  little  building  near  Dooley's  saloon  in  South 
Harvey  the  two  towns  met  and  worked  together;  and  all 
to  heal  a  broken  heart,  a  bruised  life.  From  out  of  the 
unexplored  realm  where  our  dreams  are  blooming  into  the 
fruit  of  reality  one  evening  came  Mr.  Left  with  this  message : 
''Whoever  in  the  joy  of  service  gives  part  of  himself  to  the 
vast  sum  of  sacrificial  giving  that  has  remained  unspent, 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS        273 

since  man  began  to  walk  erect,  is  adding  to  humanity 's  herit 
age,  is  building  an  unseen  temple  wherein  mankind  is  shel 
tered  from  its  own  inhumanity.  This  sum  of  sacrificial 
giving  is  the  temple  not  made  with  hands!" 

Now  the  foundations  of  that  part  of  the  temple  not  made 
with  hands  in  South  Harvey,  may  be  said  to  have  been  laid 
and  the  watertable  set  on  the  day  when  Laura  Van  Dorn 
first  laughed  the  bell-chime  laugh  of  her  girlhood.  And 
that  day  came  well  along  in  the  summer.  It  was  twilight 
and  the  Doctor  was  sitting  with  his  wife  and  daughter  on 
their  east  veranda  when  Morty  Sands  came  flitting  across 
the  lawn  like  a  striped  miller  moth  in  a  broad-banded  outing 
suit.  He  waved  gayly  to  the  little  company  in  the  veranda 
and  came  up  the  steps  at  two  bounds,  though  he  was  a  man 
of  thirty-eight  and  just  the  least  bit  weazened. 

''Well,"  he  said,  with  his  greetings  scarcely  off  his  lips, 
"I  came  to  tell  you  I've  sold  the  colt!" 

The  chorus  repeated  his  announcement  as  a  question. 

"Yes,  sold  the  colt,"  solemnly  responded  Morty.  And 
then  added,  "Father  just  wouldn't!  I  tried  to  get  that  two 
hundred  in  various  ways — adding  it  to  my  cigar  bill;  slip 
ping  it  in  on  my  bill  for  raiment  at  Wright  &  Perry's,  but 
father  pinned  Kyle  down,  and  he  stuttered  out  the  truth. 
I  tried  to  get  the  horse-doctor  to  charge  the  two  hundred 
into  his  bill  and  when  father  uncovered  that — I  couldn't 
wait  any  longer  so  I've  sold  the  colt!" 

''Well,  Morty,  what  for  in  Heaven's  name?"  asked  Laura. 
Morty  began  fumbling  in  his  pockets  before  he  spoke.  He 
did  not  smile,  but  as  his  hand  came  out  of  an  inside  pocket, 
he  said  gently:  "For  two  hundred  and  seventeen  dollars 
and  a  half!  I  fought  an  hour  for  that  half  dollar!"  He 
handed  it  to  the  Doctor,  saying:  "It's  for  the  kindergarten. 
You  keep  it  for  her,  Doctor  Jim!" 

When  Morty  had  gone  Mrs.  Nesbit  said:  "What  queer 
blood  that  Sands  blood  is,  Doctor.  There  is  Mary  Sands 's 
heart  in  that  boy,  and  Daniel  has  bred  nothing  into  him. 
They  must  have  been  a  queer  breed  a  generation  or  two 
back!" 

The  Doctor  did  not  answer.  He  took  the  money  which 
Morty  had  given  to  him,  handed  it  to  Laura  and  said :  ' '  And 


274  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

now  my  dear,  accept  this  token  of  devotion  from  Sir  Morti 
mer  Sands,  of  the  golden  heart  and  wooden  head!"  And 
then  Laura  laughed,  not  in  derision,  not  in  merriment  even, 
but  in  sheer  joy  that  life  could  mean  so  much.  And  as 
she  laughed  the  temple  not  made  with  hands  began  to  rise 
strong  and  beautiful  in  her  heart  and  in  the  hearts  of  all 
who  touched  her. 

How  they  would  have  sneered  at  Laura  Van  Dora's  niche 
in  the  temple,  those  practical  folk  who  helped  her  because 
they  loved  her.  How  George  Brotherton  would  have 
laughed;  with  what  suspicion  John  Kollander  would  have 
viewed  the  kindergarten,  if  he  had  been  told  that  it  was 
part  of  a  temple.  For  he  had  no  sort  of  an  idea  of  letting 
the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  of  South  Harvey  into  a  temple;  he 
knew  very  well  they  deserved  no  temple.  They  were  shift 
less  and  wicked.  How  Wright  &  Perry  would  have  sniffed 
at  any  one  who  would  have  called  the  dreary  little  shack, 
where  Laura  Van  Dorn  held  forth,  a  temple.  For  they  all 
pretended  to  see  only  the  earthly  dimensions  of  material 
things.  But  in  their  hearts  they  knew  the  truth.  It  is  the 
American  way  to  mask  the  beauty  of  our  nobler  selves,  or 
real  selves  under  a  gibing  deprecation.  So  we  wear  the  ve 
neer  of  materialism,  and  beneath  it  we  are  intense  idealists. 
And  woe  to  him  who  reckons  to  the  contrary ! 

Perhaps  the  town's  views  on  temples  in  general  and 
Laura's  temple  in  particular,  was  summed  up  by  Hildy 
ITerdicker,  Prop.,  when  she  read  Mr.  Left's  reflections  in  the 
Tribune.  "Temples — eh? — temples  not  made  with  hands — 
is  it?  Well,  Miss  Laura  can  get  what  comfort  she  can  out 
of  her  baby  shop;  but  me?  Every  man  to  his  trade  as  Kyle 
Perry  said  when  he  tried  to  buy  a  dozen  scissors  and  got  a 
sewing  machine — me? — I  get  my  heart  balm  selling  hats, 
and  if  others  gets  theirs  coddling  brats— 'tis  the  good  God's 
wisdom  that  makes  us  different  and  no  business  of  mine  so 
long  as  they  bring  grist  to  the  profit  mill!  The  trouble 
with  their  temples  is  that  they  don't  pay  taxes!" 

So  in  the  matter  of  putting  up  temples — particularly  in 
the  matter  of  erecting  temples  not  made  with  hands,  the 
town  worked  blindly.  But  so  far  as  Laura  Van  Dorn  was 
concerned,  while  she  was  working  on  her  part  of  the  temple, 


TWO  TEMPLES  AND  THE  CONTENTS        275 

she  had  the  vision  of  youth  still  in  her  heart.  Youth  indeed 
is  that  part  of  every  soul  that  life  has  not  tarnished,  and  if 
we  keep  our  faith,  hold  ourselves  true  and  bow  to  no  circum 
stance  however  arrogant  it  may  be,  youth  still  will  abide  in 
our  hearts  through  many  years.  Now  Laura,  who  was  born 
Nesbit  and  became  Van  Dorn,  was  taking  up  life  with  that 
large  charity  that  comes  to  every  unconquered  soul.  She 
held  her  illusions,  she  believed  in  herself,  and  youth  shone 
like  a  beacon  from  her  face  and  glowed  in  her  body. 

For  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  who  had  been  her  husband,  she 
had  trained  herself  to  hold  no  unkind  thought.  She  even 
taught  Lila — when  the  child  asked  for  him — to  harbor  no 
rancor  toward  him.  So  the  child  turned  to  her  father  when 
they  met,  the  natural  face  of  a  child ;  it  was  a  sad  little  face 
that  he  saw — though  no  one  else  ever  saw  it  sad;  but  the 
child  smiled  when  she  spoke  and  looked  gently  at  him,  in  the 
hope  that  some  day  he  would  come  back  to  her. 

Now  it  happened  that  on  the  night  when  Laura's  laugh 
first  echoed  through  her  temple  another  rising  temple  wit 
nessed  a  ceremony  entirely  befitting  its  use. 

That  night — late  that  night  when  a  pale  moon  was  climb 
ing  over  the  valley  below  the  town,  Margaret  and  her  lover 
stood  alone  in  the  great  unfinished  house  which  they  were 
building. 

Through  the  uncurtained  windows  the  moonlight  was 
streaming,  making  white  splashes  upon  the  floors.  Across 
the  plank  pathways  they  wandered  locating  the  halls,  the 
great  living-room,  the  spacious  dining-room,  the  airy,  com 
fortable  bedrooms  exposed  to  the  south,  the  library,  the 
kitchen,  and  the  ballroom  on  the  third  floor.  It  was  to  be  a 
grand  house — this  house  of  Van  Dorn.  And  in  their  fancy 
the  man  and  the  woman  called  it  the  temple  of  love  erected 
as  an  altar  to  the  love  god  whom  they  worshiped.  They 
peopled  it  with  many  a  merry  company.  They  saw  the  rich 
and  the  great  in  the  dining-room.  They  pictured  in  this 
vision  pleasure  capering  through  the  ball  room.  They  en 
shrined  wisdom  and  contentment  in  the  library.  In  the 
great  living-room  they  installed  elegance  and  luxury,  and 
hospitality  beckoned  with  ostentatious  pride  for  the  coming 
of  such  of  the  nobility  as  Harvey  and  its  environs  and  the 


276  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

surrounding  state  and  Nation  could  produce.  A  grand, 
proud  temple,  a  rich,  beautiful  temple,  a  strong,  masterful 
temple  would  be  this  temple  of  love. 

"And,  dearest,"  said  he — the  master  of  the  house,  as  he 
held  her  in  his  arms  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway  that  swept 
down  into  the  broad  hall  like  the  ghost  of  some  baronial 
grandeur,  "dearest,  what  do  we  care  what  they  say!  We 
have  built  it  for  ourselves — just  for  you,  I  want  it — just 
for  you;  not  friends,  not  children,  not  any  one  but  you. 
This  is  to  be  our  temple  of  love." 

She  kissed  him,  and  whined  wordless  assent.  Then  she 
whispered:  "Just  you — you,  you,  and  if  man,  woman  or 
child  come  to  mar  our  joy  or  to  lessen  our  love,  God  pity 
the  intruder."  And  like  a  flaming  torch  she  fluttered  in 
his  arms. 

The  summer  breeze  came  caressingly  through  an  unclosed 
window  into  the  temple.  It  seemed — the  summer  breeze 
which  fell  upon  their  cheeks — like  the  benediction  of  some 
pagan  god ;  their  god  of  love  perhaps.  For  the  grand  house, 
the  rich  house,  the  beautiful,  masterful  temple  of  their 
mad  love  was  made  for  summer  breezes. 

But  when  the  rain  came,  and  the  storms  fell  and  beat  upon 
that  house,  they  found  that  it  was  a  house  built  upon  sand. 
But  while  it  stood  and  even  when  it  fell  there  was  a  temple, 
a  real  temple,  a  temple  made  with  hands — a  temple  that 
all  Harvey  and  all  the  world  could  understand! 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  LONG  UPWARD  BUT  DEVIOUS  JOURNEY 

THE  Van  Dorns  opened  their  new  house  without  osten 
tation  the  day  after  their  marriage  in  October. 
There  was  no  reception ;  the  handsomest  hack  in  town 
waited  for  them  at  the  railway  station,  as  they  alighted  from 
the  Limited  from  Chicago.  They  rode  down  Market  Street, 
up  the  Avenue  to  Elm  Crest  Place,  drove  to  the  new  house, 
and  that  night  it  was  lighted.  That  was  all  the  ceremony 
of  housewarming  which  the  place  had.  The  Van  Dorns 
knew  what  the  town  thought  of  them.  They  made  it  plain 
what  they  thought  of  the  town.  They  allowed  no  second 
rate  people  to  crowd  into  the  house  as  guests  while  the  first 
rate  people  smiled,  and  the  third  rate  people  sniffed.  The 
Judge  had  some  difficulty  keeping  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  to  their 
purpose.  She  was  impatient — having  nothing  in  particular 
to  think  about,  and  being  proud  of  her  furniture.  Naturally, 
there  were  calls — a  few.  And  they  were  returned  with  some 
punctiliousness.  But  the  people  whom  the  Van  Dorns  were 
anxious  to  see  did  not  call.  In  the  winter,  the  Van  Dorns 
went  to  Florida  for  a  fortnight,  and  put  up  at  a  hotel  where 
they  could  meet  a  number  of  persons  of  distinction  whom 
they  courted,  and  whom  the  Van  Dorns  pressed  to  visit  them. 
When  she  came  home  from  the  winter's  social  excursion, 
Mrs.  Van  Dorn  went  straight  to  the  establishment  of  Mrs. 
Herdicker,  Prop.,  and  bought  a  hat;  and  bragged  to  Mrs. 
Herdicker  of  having  met  certain  New  York  social  digni 
taries  in  Florida  whose  names  were  as  familiar  to  the  Harvey 
women  as  the  names  of  their  hired  girl's  beaux!  Then 
having  started  this  tale  of  her  social  prowess  on  its  career, 
Margaret  was  more  easily  restrained  by  her  husband  from 
offering  the  house  to  the  Plymouth  Daughters  for  an  enter 
tainment.  It  was  in  that  spring  that  Margaret  began — or 

277 


278  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

perhaps  they  both  began  to  put  on  what  George  Brotherton 
called  the  "Van  Dorn  remnant  sale."  The  parade  passed 
down  Market  Street  every  morning  at  eight  thirty.  It  con 
sisted  of  one  handsome  rather  overdressed  man  and  one  beau 
tiful  rather  conspicuously  dressed  woman.  On  fair  days 
they  rode  in  a  rakish -looking  vehicle  known  as  a  trap,  and 
in  bad  weather  they  walked  through  Market  Street.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  Judge's  office  they  parted 
with  all  the  voltage  of  affection  permitted  by  the  canons  of 
propriety  and  at  five  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  re 
appeared  on  Market  Street,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
before  the  Judge's  office,  the  parade  resumed  its  course. 

"Well — say/'  said  George  Brotherton,  "right  smart  lit 
tle  line  of  staple  and  fancy  love  that  firm  is  carrying  this 
season.  Rather  nice  titles  too;  good  deal  of  full  calf 
bindings — well,  say — glancing  at  the  illustrations,  I  should 
like  to  read  the  text.  But  man — say — hear  your  Uncle 
George !  With  me  it 's  always  a  sign  of  low  stock  when  I  put 
it  all  in  the  window  and  the  show  case!  Well,  say — "  and 
he  laughed  like  the  ripping  of  an  earthquake.  "It  cer 
tainly  looks  to  me  as  if  they  were  moving  the  line  for  a 
quick  turnover  at  a  small  profit!  Well  say!" 

But  without  the  complicated  ceremony  required  to  show 
the  town  that  he  was  pleased  with  his  matrimonial  bargain, 
the  handsome  Judge  was  a  busy  man.  Every  time  he  saw 
Dr.  Nesbit  toddling  up  or  down  Market  Street,  or  through 
South  Harvey,  or  in  the  remotenesses  of  Foley  or  Magnus, 
the  Judge  whipped  up  his  energies.  For  he  knew  that 
the  Doctor  never  lost  a  fight  through  overconfidence.  So 
the  Judge,  alone  for  the  first  time  in  his  career,  set  out  to 
bring  about  his  nomination,  where  a  nomination  meant  an 
election.  Now  a  judge  who  showed  the  courage  of  his  con 
victions,  as  Judge  Van  Dorn  had  shown  his  courage  in  forc 
ing  settlements  in  the  mine  accident  cases  and  in  similar 
matters  of  occasional  interest,  was  rather  more  immediately 
needed  by  the  mine  owners  of  Harvey  than  the  political 
boss,  who  merely  used  the  mine  owner's  money  to  encompass 
his  own  ends,  and  incidentally  work  out  the  owner's  salva 
tion.  Daniel  Sands  played  both  sides,  which  was  all  that 
Van  Dorn  could  ask.  But  when  the  Doctor  saw  that  Sands 


DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  JOURNEY         279 

was  giving  secret  aid  to  Van  Dorn,  the  Doctor's  heart  was 
hot  within  him.  And  Van  Dorn  continued  to  rove  the  dis 
trict  day  and  night,  like  a  dog,  hunting  for  its  buried  bone. 

It  was  in  the  courthouse  that  Van  Dorn  made  his  strong 
est  alliance — in  the  courthouse,  where  the  Doctor  was  sup 
posed  to  be  in  supreme  command.  A  capricious  fate  had 
arranged  it  so  that  nearly  all  the  county  officers  were  running 
for  their  second  terms,  and  a  second  term  was  a  time  honored 
courtesy.  Van  Dorn  tied  himself  up  with  them  by  main 
taining  that  his  was  a  second  term  election  also, — and  a 
second  regular  four  year  term  it  was.  His  appointment,  and 
his  election  to  fill  out  the  remainder  of  his  predecessor's 
term,  he  waved  aside  as  immaterial,  and  staged  himself  as 
a  candidate  for  his  second  term.  The  Doctor  tried  to  break 
the  combination  between  the  Judge  and  the  second  term 
county  candidates  by  ruthlessly  bringing  out  their  deputies 
against  the  second  termers  as  candidates.  But  the  scheme 
provoked  popular  rebellion.  The  Doctor  tried  bringing  out 
one  young  lawyer  after  another  against  the  Judge,  but  all 
had  retainers  from  the  mine  owners,  and  no  one  in  the  county 
would  run  against  Van  Dorn,  so  the  Doctor  had  to  pick  his 
candidate  from  outside  of  the  county,  in  a  judicial  convention 
wherein  Greeley  County  had  a  majority  of  the  votes.  But 
Van  Dorn  knew  that  for  all  the  strategy  of  the  situation,  the 
Doctor  might  be  able  to  mass  the  town's  disapproval  of  Van 
Dorn,  socially,  into  a  political  majority  in  the  convention 
against  him.  So  the  handsome  Judge,  with  his  matrimonial 
parade  to  give  daily,  his  political  fortunes  to  consider  every 
hour,  and  withal,  a  court  to  hold,  and  a  judicial  serenity  to 
maintain,  was  a  busy  young  man — a  rather  more  than  passing 
busy  young  man ! 

As  for  the  Doctor,  he  threw  himself  into  the  contest  against 
Van  Dorn  with  no  mixed  motives.  "There,"  quoth  the 
Doctor,  to  the  wide  world  including  his  own  henchmen,  yeo 
men,  heralds,  and  outriders,  "is  one  hound  pup  I  am  going 
to  teach  house  manners !"  And  failing  to  break  Van  Dorn's 
alliance  in  the  courthouse,  and  failing  to  bulldoze  Daniel 
Sands  out  of  a  secret  liaison  with  Van  Dorn,  failing  to 
punish  those  of  his  courthouse  friends  who  permitted  Van 
Dorn  to  stand  with  them  on  their  convention  tickets  in  the 


280  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

primary,  the  Doctor  went  forth  with  his  own  primary  ticket, 
and  announced  that  he  proposed  to  beat  Van  Dorii  in  the 
convention  single  handed  and  alone. 

And  so  quiet  are  the  wheels  of  our  government,  that  few 
heard  them  grinding  during  the  spring  and  early  summer 
— few  except  the  little  coterie  of  citizens  who  pay  attention 
to  the  details  of  party  politics.  Yet  underneath  and  over 
the  town,  and  through  the  very  heart  of  it  wherever  the  web 
of  the  spider  went,  there  was  a  cruel  rending.  Two  men 
with  hate  in  their  hearts  were  pulling  at  the  web,  wrenching 
its  filaments,  twisting  it  out  of  shape,  ripping  its  texture,  in 
a  desperate  struggle  to  control  the  web,  and  with  that  control 
to  govern  the  people. 

Then  Dr.  Nesbit  pushed  his  way  into  the  very  nest  of  the 
spider,  and  bolted  into  Daniel  Sands 's  office  to  register  a 
final  protest  against  Sands 's  covert  alliance  with  the  Judge. 
He  plunked  angrily  into  the  den  of  the  spider,  shut  the  door, 
turned  the  spring  lock,  and  looking  around  saw  not  Sands, 
but  Van  Dorn  himself. 

The  Doctor  burst  out:  "Well,  young  man!  So  you're 
here,  eh!"  Van  Dorn  nodded  pleasantly,  and  replied  gra 
ciously  :  * '  Yes,  Doctor,  here  1  am,  and  I  believe  we  have  met 
here  before — at  one  time  or  another." 

The  Doctor  sat  down  and  slapping  a  fat  hand  on  a  chair 
arm,  cried  angrily:  "Thomas,  it  can't  be  did — you  can't 
cut  'cr." 

Judge  Van  Dorn  answered  blandly,  rather  patronizingly: 
/'Yes,  Dr.  Jim,  it  can  be  done.  And  I  shall  do  it." 

"Have  you  let  'em  fool  you — the  fellows  on  the  street?" 
asked  the  Doctor. 

Judge  Van  Dorn  tapped  on  the  desk  beside  him  medi 
tatively,  then  answered  slowly:  "No — I  should  say  they 
mostly  lied  to  me — they're  not  for  me — excepting,  maybe, 
Captain  Morton,  who  tried  to  say  he  was  opposed  to  me — 
but  couldn't — quite.  No — Doctor — no — Market  Street  didn't 
fool  me." 

He  was  so  suave  about  it,  so  naive,  and  yet  so  cock-sure  of 
his  success,  that  the  Doctor  was  impatient:  "Tom,"  he 
piped,  "I  tell  you,  they're  too  strong  to  bluff  and  too  many 
to  buy.  You  can't  make  it. r 


7  > 


DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  JOURNEY        281 

The  younger  man  shut  one  eye,  knocked  with  his  tongue 
on  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  then  said  as  he  looked  insolently 
into  the  Doctor's  face : 

"Well,  to  begin — what's  your  price?" 

The  Doctor  flushed ;  his  loose  skin  twitched  around  his  nos 
trils,  and  he  gripped  his  chair  arms.  He  did  not  answer  for 
nearly  a  minute,  during  which  the  Judge  tilted  back  in  his 
chair' beside  the  desk  and  looked  at  the  elder  man  with  some 
show  of  curiosity,  if  not  of  interest. 

''My  price,"  sneered  the  Doctor,  "is  a  little  mite  low  to 
day.  It's  a  pelt— a  hound  pup's  pelt  and  you  are  going 
to  furnish  it,  if  you'll  stop  strutting  long  enough  for  me 
to  skin  you!" 

The  two  men  glared  at  each  other.  Then  Van  Dorn,  re 
gaining  his  poise,  answered:  "Well,  sir,  I'm  going  to  win 
— no  matter  how — I'm  going  to  win.  I've  sat  up  with  this 
situation  every  night  for  six  months — Oh,  for  a  year.  I 
know  it  backwards  and  forwards,  and  you  can't  trip  me  any 
place  along  the  line.  I've  counted  you  out."  He  went  on 
smiling: 

"What  have  I  done  that  is  not  absolutely  legal?  This  is 
a  government  of  law,  Doctor — not  of  hysteria.  The  trouble 
with  you,"  the  Judge  settled  down  to  an  upright  position  in 
his  chair,  "is  that  you're  an  old  maid.  You're  so — so"  he 
drawled  the  "so"  insolently,  "damn  nice.  You're  an  old 
maid,  and  you  come  from  a  family  of  old  maids.  I  warrant 
your  grandmother  and  her  mother  before  her  were  old  maids. 
There  hasn't  been  a  man  in  your  family  for  five  generations." 
The  Doctor  rose.  Van  Dorn  went  on  arrogantly,  "Doctor 
James  Nesbit,  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  And  I'll  tell  you 
this:  If  you  make  a  fight  on  me  in  this  contest,  when  I'm 
elected,  we'll  see  if  there  isn't  one  less  corrupt  boss  in  this 
state  and  if  Greeley  County  can't  contribute  a  pompadour 
to  the  rogues'  gallery  and  a  tenor  voice  to  the  penitentiary 
choir." 

During  the  harangue  of  the  Judge,  the  Doctor's  full  lips 
had  begun  to  twitch  in  a  smile,  and  his  eyes  to  twinkle.  Then 
he  chirped  gaily: 

"Heap  o'  steam  for  the  size  of  the  load  and  weight  of  your 
biler,  Tom.  Better  hoop  'em  up!" 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

And  with  a  laugh,  shaking  his  little  round  stomach,  he 
toddled  out  of  the  room  into  the  corridor,  and  began  whistling 
the  tune  that  tells  what  will  happen  when  Johnny  comes 
marching  home. 

So  the  Doctor  whistled  about  his  afternoon's  work  and 
did  not  realize  that  the  whistling  was  a  form  of  nervous 
ness. 

That  evening  the  Doctor  and  Laura  began  to  read  their 
Browning  where  they  had  left  off  the  night  before.  They 
were  in  the  midst  of  ' '  Paracelsus, "  when  the  father  looked 
up  and  said: 

"Laura,  you  know  I'm  going  to  fight  Tom  Van  Dorn  for 
another  term  as  district  judge?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  should,  father — I  didn't  expect 
he'd  ask  it  again!"  said  the  daughter. 

"We  had  a  row  this  afternoon — a  miserable,  bickering 
row.  He  got  on  his  hind  legs  and  snarled  and  snapped  at 
me,  and  made  me  mad,  I  guess.  So  I  got  to  thinking  why  I 
should  be  against  him,  and  it  came  to  me  that  a  man  who  had 
violated  the  decencies  as  he  has  and  whose  decisions  for  the 
old  spider  have  been  so  raw,  shouldn't  be  judge  in  this 
district.  Lord,  what  will  young  fellows  think  if  we  stand 
for  him !  So  I  have  kind  of  worked  myself  up,"  the  Doctor 
smiled  deprecatingly,  "to  a  place  where  I  seem  to  have  a 
sacred  duty  in  the  matter  of  licking  him  for  the  sake  of  gen 
eral  decency.  Anyway,"  he  concluded  in  his  high  falsetto, 
"old  Browning's  diver,  here,  fits  me.  He  goes  down  a 
pauper  and,  with  his  pearl,  comes  up  a  prince." 

"Festus,"  cried  the  Doctor,  waving  the  book,  "I  plunge." 

Thus  through  the  pique  of  pride,  and  through  the  sting  of 
scorn,  a  force  of  righteousness  came  into  the  world  of  Harvey. 
For  our  miracles  of  human  progress  are  not  always  done  with 
prunes  and  prisms.  The  truth  does  not  come  to  men  always, 
nor  even,  generally,  as  they  are  gazing  in  joyful  admiration 
at  the  good  and  the  beautiful.  Sudden  conversions  of  men  to 
good  causes  are  rare,  and  often  unstable  and  sometimes  worth 
less.  The  good  Lord  would  find  much  of  the  best  work  of 
the  world  undone  if  he  waited  until  men  guided  by  purely 
altruistic  motives  and  inspired  by  new  impulses  to  righteous 
ness,  did  it.  The  world 's  work  is  done  by  ladies  and  gentle- 


DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  JOURNEY        283 

men  who,  for  the  most  part,  are  largely  clay,  working  in  the 
clay,  for  clay  rewards,  with  just  enough  of  the  divine  im 
pulse  moving  them  to  keep  their  faces  turned  forward  and 
not  back. 

Public  opinion  in  the  Amen  Corner,  voiced  by  Mr.  Broth- 
erton,  spoke  for  Harvey  and  said:  "Well,  say — what  do 
you  think  of  Old  Linen  Pants  bucking  the  whole  courthouse 
just  to  get  the  hide  of  Judge  Van  Dorn?  Did  you  ever  see 
such  a  thing  in  your  whole  life?"  emphasizing  the  word 
"whole"  with  fine  effect. 

Mr.  Brother  ton  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  rear  of  his  store,  con 
templating  the  splendor  of  his  possessions.  Gradually  the 
rear  of  the  shop  had  been  creeping  toward  the  alley.  It 
was  filled  with  books,  stationery,  cigars  and  smoker's  sup 
plies.  The  cigars  and  smoker's  supplies  were  crowded  to 
a  little  alcove  near  the  Amen  Corner,  and  the  books — school 
books,  pirated  editions  of  the  standard  authors,  fancy  edi 
tions  of  the  classics,  new  books  copyrighted  and  gorgeously 
bound  in  the  fashion  of  the  hour,  were  displayed  prominently. 
Great  posters  adorned  the  vacant  spaces  on  the  walls,  and 
posters  and  enlarged  magazine  covers  adorned  the  bulletin 
boards  in  front  of  the  store.  Piles  of  magazines  towered  on 
the  front  counters — and  upon  the  whole,  Mr.  Brotherton's 
place  presented  a  fairly  correct  imitation  of  the  literary 
tendencies  of  the  period  in  America  just  before  the  Spanish 
war. 

Amos  Adams  came  in,  with  his  old  body  bent,  his  hands 
behind  him,  his  shapeless  coat  hanging  loosely  from  his 
stooped  shoulders,  his  little  tri-colored  button  of  the  Loyal 
Legion  in  his  coat  lapel,  being  the  only  speck  of  color  in  his 
graying  figure.  He  peered  at  Mr.  Brotherton  over  his  spec 
tacles  and  said:  "George — I'd  like  to  look  at  Emerson's 
addresses — the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Address  particularly."  He 
nosed  up  to  the  shelves  and  went  peering  along  the  books  in 
sets.  "Help  yourself,  Dad,  help  yourself —  Glad  you  like 
Emerson — elegant  piece  of  goods ;  wrapped  one  up  last  week 
and  took  it  home  myself — elegant  piece  of  goods. ' ' 

"Yes,"  mused  the  reader,  "here  is  what  1  want— I  had  a 
talk  with  Emerson  last  night.  He's  against  the  war;  not 
that  he  is  for  Spain,  of  course,  but  Huxley,"  added  Amos,  as 


284  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

he  turned  the  pages  of  his  book,  "rather  thinks  we  should 
fight — believes  war  lies  along  the  path  of  greatest  resistance, 
and  will  lead  to  our  greater  destiny  sooner."  The  old  man 
sighed,  and  continued:  "Poor  Lincoln — I  couldn't  get  him 
last  night :  they  say  he  and  Garrison  were  having  a  great  row 
about  the  situation." 

The  elder  stroked  his  ragged  beard  meditatively.  Finally 
he  said :  ' '  George — did  you  ever  hear  our  Kenyon  play  1 ' ' 

The  big  man  nodded  and  went  on  with  his  work.  "Well, 
sir,"  the  elder  reflected:  "Now,  it's  queer  about  Kenyon. 
He's  getting  to  be  a  wonder.  I  don't  know — it  all  puzzles 
me."  He  rose,  put  back  the  book  on  its  shelf.  "Sometimes 
I  believe  I'm  a  fool — and  sometimes  things  like  this  bother 
me.  They  say  they  are  training  Kenyon — 011  the  other  side ! 
Of  course  he  just  has  what  music  Laura  and  Mrs.  Nesbit 
could  give  him;  yet  the  other  day,  he  got  hold  of  a  piano 
score  of  Schubert's  Symphony  in  B  flat  and  while  he  can't 
play  it,  he  just  sits  and  cries  over  it — it  means  so  much  to  the 
little  fellow." 

The  gray  head  wagged  and  the  clear,  old,  blue  eyes  looked 
out  through  the  steel-rimmed  glasses  and  he  sighed:  "He 
is  going  ahead,  making  up  the  most  wonderful  music — it 
seems  to  me,  and  writing  it  down  when  he  can't  play  it — 
writing  the  whole  score  for  it — and  they  tell  me — "  he  ex 
plained  deprecatingly,  "my  friends  on  the  other  side,  that 
the  child  will  make  a  name  for  himself."  He  paused  and 
asked:  "George — you're  a  hardhead ed  man — what  do  you 
think  of  it?  You  don't  think  I'm  crazy,  do  you,  George?" 

The  younger  man  glanced  up,  caught  the  clear,  kindly  eye 
of  Amos  Adams  looking  questioningly  down. 

"Dad,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton,  hammering  his  fat  fist  on  the 
desk,  "  'there's  more  things  in  Heaven  and  earth  than  are 
dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy,  Horatio' — well  say,  man — 
that's  Shakespeare.  We  sell  more  Shakespeares  than  all  the 
other  poets  combined.  Fine  business,  this  Shakespeare. 
And  when  a  man  holds  the  lead  in  the  trade  as  this  Shake 
speare  has  done  ever  since  I  went  into  the  Red  Line  poets 
back  in  the  eighties — I'm  pretty  nearly  going  to  stay  by 
him.  And  when  he  says,  '  Don 't  be  too  damn  sure  you  know 
it  all — '  or  words  to  that  effect — and  holds  the  trade  saying 


DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  JOURNEY        285 

it — well,  say,  man — your  spook  friends  are  all  right  with  me, 
only  say,"  Mr.  Brotherton  shuddered,  "I'd  die  if  one  came 
gliding  up  to  me  and  asked  for  a  chew  of  my  eating  tobacco 
— the  way  they  do  with  you ! ' ' 

"Well,"  smiled  Amos  Adams,  "much  obliged  to  you, 
George — I  just  wanted  your  ideas.  Laura  Van  Dorn  has  sent 
Kenyon's  last  piece  back  to  Boston  to  see  if  by  any  chance 
he  couldn't  unconsciously  have  taken  it  from  something  or 
some  one.  She  says  it's  wonderful — but,  of  course,"  the  old 
man  scratched  his  chin,  "Laura  and  Bedelia  Nesbit  are  just 
as  likely  to  be  fooled  in  music  as  I  am  with  my  controls." 
Then  the  subject  drifted  into  politics — the  local  politics  of 
the  town,  the  Van  Dorn-Nesbit  contest. 

And  at  the  end  of  their  discussion  Amos  rubbed  his  bony, 
lean,  hard,  old  hands,  and  looked  away  through  the  books 
and  the  brick  wall  and  the  whole  row  of  buildings  before 
him  into  the  future  and  smiled.  "I  wonder — I  wonder  if 
the  country  ever  will  come  to  see  the  economic  and  social  and 
political  meaning  of  this  politics  that  we  have  now — this 
politics  that  the  poor  man  gets  through  a  beer  keg  the  night 
before  election,  and  that  the  rich  man  buys  with  his  'barl.'  : 

He  shook  his  head.  "You'll  see  it — you  and  Grant — but 
it  will  be  long  after  my  time."  Amos  lifted  up  his  old  face 
and  cried:  "I  know  there  is  another  day  coming — a  better 
day.  For  this  one  is  unworthy  of  us.  We  are  better  than 
this — at  heart !  We  have  in  us  the  blood  of  the  fathers,  and 
their  high  visions  too.  And  they  did  not  put  their  lives  into 
this  nation  for  this — for  this  cruel  tangle  of  injustice  that  we 
show  the  world  to-day.  Some  day — some  day,"  Amos 
Adams  lifted  up  his  face  and  cried:  "I  don't  know!  May 
be  my  guides  are  wrong  but  my  own  heart  tells  me  that 
some  day  we  shall  cease  feeding  with  the  swine  and  return 
to  the  house  of  our  father!  For  we  are  of  royal  blood, 
George — of  royal  blood  ! " 

"Why,  hello,  Morty,"  cut  in  Mr.  Brotherton.  "Come 
right  in  and  listen  to  the  seer — genuine  Hebrew  prophet  here 
— got  a  familiar  spirit,  and  says  Babylon  is  falling." 

"Well,  Uncle  Amos,"  said  Morty  Sands,  "let  her  fall!" 
Old  Amos  smiled  and  after  Morty  had  turned  the  talk  from 
falling  Babylon  to  Laura  Van  Dorn's  kindergarten,  Amos 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

being  reminded  by  Laura  of  Kenyon  and  his  music,  unfolded 
his  theory  of  the  occult  source  of  the  child's  musical  talent, 
and  invited  George  and  Morty  to  church  to  hear  Kenyon 
play. 

So  when  Sunday  came,  with  it  came  full  knowledge  that 
most  members  of  the  congregation  were  to  hear  Kenyon 
Adams'  new  composition,  which  had  been  rather  widely  ad 
vertised  by  his  friends ;  and  Rev.  John  Dexter,  feeling  himself 
a  fifth  wheel,  discarded  his  sermon  and  in  humility  and  con 
trition  submitted  some  extemporaneous  remarks  on  the  pas 
sion  for  humanity  of  *  *  Christ  and  him  crucified. ' ' 

A  little  boy  was  Kenyon  Adams — a  slim,  great-eyed,  seri 
ous  faced,  little  boy  in  an  Eton  jacket  and  knickerbockers-— 
not  so  much  larger  than  his  violin  that  he  carried  under  his 
arm.  His  little  hand  shook,  but  Grant  caught  his  gaze  and 
with  a  tender,  earnest  reassurance  put  sinews  into  the  small 
arms,  and  stilled  an  unsteady  jaw.  The  organ  was  playing 
the  prelude,  when  the  little  hand  with  the  bow  went  out  in  a 
wide,  sure,  strong  curve,  and  when  the  bow  touched  the 
strings,  they  sang  from  a  soul  depth  that  no  child's  experi 
ence  could  know. 

It  was  the  first  public  rendering  of  the  now  famous  Adagio 
in  C  minor,  known  sometimes  as  "The  Prairie  Wind,"  or 
perhaps  better  as  the  Intermezzo  between  the  second  and 
third  acts  of  the  opera  that  made  Kenyon  Adams'  fame  in 
Europe  before  he  was  twenty.  It  has  been  changed  but  little 
since  that  first  hearing  there  in  John  Dexter 's  church  with 
the  Sands  Memorial  organ,  built  in  the  early  eighties  for 
Elizabeth  Page  Sands,  mother  of  Anne  of  that  tribe.  The 
composition  is  simplicity  itself — save  for  the  mystical  ques 
tioning  that  runs  through  it  in  the  sustained  sevenths — a 
theme  which  Captain  Morton  said  always  reminded  him  of  a 
meadow  lark's  evening  song,  but  which  repeats  itself  over 
and  over  plaintively  and  sadly  as  the  stately  music  swells  to 
its  crescendo  and  dies  with  that  unanswered  cry  of  heart 
break  echoing  in  the  last  faint  notes  of  the  closing  bar. 

When  it  was  finished,  those  who  had  ears  heard  and  under 
stood  and  those  who  had  not  said,  "Well,"  and  waited  for 
public  opinion,  unless  they  were  fools,  in  which  case  they 
said  they  would  have  preferred  something  to  whistle.  But 


DR.  NESBIT  STARTS  ON  A  JOURNEY         287 

because  the  thing  impressed  itself  upon  hundreds  of  hearts 
that  hour,  many  in  the  congregation  came  forward  to  greet 
the  child. 

Among  these,  was  a  tall,  stately  young  woman  in  pure 
white  with  a  rose  upon  her  hat  so  deeply  red  that  it  seemed 
guilty  of  a  shame.  But  her  lips  were  as  red  as  the  red  of 
the  rose  and  her  eyes  glistened  and  her  face  was  wrought 
upon  by  a  great  storm  in  her  heart.  Behind  her  walked  a 
proud  gentleman,  a  lordly  gentleman  who  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  throng  as  one  who  touches  the  unclean.  The 
pale  child  stood  by  Grant  Adams  as  they  came.  Kenyon  did 
not  see  the  beautiful  woman ;  the  child 's  eyes  were  upon  the 
man.  He  knew  the  man ;  Lila  had  poured  out  her  soul  to  the 
boy  about  the  man  and  in  his  child 's  heart  he  feared  and  ab 
horred  the  man  for  he  knew  not  what.  The  man  and  woman 
kept  coming  closer.  They  were  abreast  as  they  stepped  into 
the  pulpit  where  the  child  stood.  By  his  own  music,  his  soul 
had  been  stirred  and  riven  and  he  was  nervous  and  excited. 
As  the  woman  beside  the  man  stretched  out  her  arms,  with 
her  face  tense  from  some  inner  turmoil,  the  child  saw  only 
the  proud  man  beside  her  and  shrank  back  with  a  wild  cry 
and  hid  in  his  father's  breast.  The  eyes  of  Grant  and  Mar 
garet  met,  but  the  child  only  cuddled  into  the  broad  breast 
before  him  and  wept,  crying,  "No — no — no — " 

Then  the  proud  man  turned  back,  spurned  but  not  knowing 
it,  and  the  beautiful  woman  with  red  shame  in  her  soul  fol 
lowed  him  with,  downcast  face.  In  the  church  porch  she 
lifted  up  her  face  as  she  said  with  her  fair,  false  mouth: 
: ' Tom,  isn't  it  funny  how  those  kind  of  people  sometimes  have 
talent — just  like  the  lower  animals  seem  to  have  intelligence. 
Dear  me,  but  that  child 's  music  has  upset  me ! " 

The  man's  heart  was  full  of  pride  and  hate  and  the 
woman's  heart  was  full  of  pride  and  jealousy.  Still  the  air 
was  sweet  for  them,  the  birds  sang  for  them,  and  the  sun 
shone  tenderly  upon  them.  They  even  laughed,  as  they  went 
their  high  Jovian  way,  at  the  vanities  of  the  world 'on  its 
lower  plane.  But  their  very  laughter  was  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  a  pot  wherein  their  hearts  were  burning. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN  WHICH   WE  SEE  SOMETHING  COME  INTO  THIS  STORY 
OUTSIDE  OF   THE   MATERIAL.  WORLD 

4  4T  IFE,"  writes  Mr.  Left,  using  the  pseudonym  of  the 
:  Peachblow  philosopher,  "  disheartens  us  because  we 
1  J  expect  the  wrong  things  of  it.  We  expect  material 
rewards  for  spiritual  virtues,  material  punishments  for 
spiritual  transgressions;  when  even  in  the  material  world, 
material  rewards  and  punishments  do  not  always  follow  the 
acts  which  seem  to  require  them.  Yet  the  only  sure  thing  in 
the  world  is  that  our  spiritual  lapses  bring  spiritual  punish 
ments,  and  our  spiritual  virtues  have  their  spiritual  re 
wards.  ' ' 

Now  these  observations  of  Mr.  Left  might  well  be  taken  for 
the  thesis  of  this  story.  Tom  Van  Dorn's  spiritual  trans 
gressions  had  no  material  punishments  and  the  good  that 
was  in  Grant  Adams  had  no  material  reward.  Yet  the  spirit 
ual  laws  which  they  obeyed  or  violated  were  inexorable  in 
their  rewards  and  punishments. 

Once  there  entered  the  life  of  Judge  Van  Dorn,  from  the 
outside,  the  play  of  purely  spiritual  forces,  which  looped  him 
up  and  tripped  him  in  another  man's  game,  and  Tom,  poor 
fellow,  may  have  thought  that  it  was  a  special  Providence 
around  with  a  warrant  looking  after  him.  Now  this  state 
ment  hangs  on  one  "if,"— if  you  can  call  Nate  Perry  a  man ! 
"One  generation  passeth  and  another  cometh  on,"  saith  the 
Preacher.  Perhaps  it  has  occurred  to  the  reader  that  the 
love  affairs  of  this  book  are  becoming  exceedingly  middle 
aged ;  some  have  only  the  dying  glow  of  early  reminiscence. 
But  here  comes  one  that  is  as  young  as  spring  flowers ;  that 
is — if  Nate  Perry  is  a  man,  and  is  entitled  to  a  love  affair 
at  all.  Let's  take  a  look  at  him:  long  legged,  lean  faced, 
keen  eyed,  razor  bodied,  just  back  from  College  where  he  has 

288 


STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD     289 

studied  mining  engineering.  He  is  a  pick  and  shovel  miner 
in  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Company's  mine,  getting  the  practical 
end  of  the  business.  For  he  is  heir  apparent  of  stuttering 
Kyle  Perry,  who  has  holdings  in  the  mines.  Young  Nate's 
voice  rasps  like  the  whine  of  a  saw  and  he  has  no  illusions 
about  the  stuff  the  world  is  made  of.  For  him  life  is  atoms 
flopping  about  in  the  ether  in  an  entirely  consistent  and 
satisfactory  manner.  Things  spiritual  don't  bother  him. 
And  yet  it  was  in  working  out  a  spiritual  equation  in  Nate 
Perry's  life  that  Providence  tipped  over  Tom  Van  Dorn,  in 
his  race  for  Judgeship. 

And  now  let  us  put  Mr.  Brotherton  on  the  stand : 
11  Showers,''  exclaims  Mr.  Brotherton,  "showers  for  Nate 
and  Anne, — why,  only  yesterday  I  sent  him  and  Grant  Adams 
over  to  Mrs.  Herdieker's  to  borrow  her  pile-driver,  and 
spanked  him  for  canning  a  dog,  and  it  hasn't  been  more'n 
a  week  since  I  gave  Anne  a  rattle  when  her  father  brought 
her  down  town  the  day  after  the  funeral,  as  he  was  looking 
over  Wright  &  Perry's  clerks  for  the  fourth  Mrs.  Sands — 
and  here's  showers!  Well,  say,  isn't  time  that  blue  streak! 
Showers!  Say,  I  saw  Tom  Van  Dorn's  little  Lila  in  the 
store  this  morning — isn't  she  the  beauty — bluest  eyes,  and  the 
sweetest,  saddest,  dearest  little  face — and  say,  man — I  do 
believe  Tom's  kind  of  figuring  up  what  he  missed  along  that 
line.  He  tried  to  talk  to  her  this  morning,  but  she  looked 
at  him  with  those  blue  eyes  and  shrank  away.  Doc  Jim 
bought  her  a  doll  and  a  train  of  cars.  That  was  just  this 
morning,  and  well,  say — I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  when  I 
come  down  and  unlock  the  store  to-morrow  morning,  some 
one  will  be  telling  me  she's  having  showers.  Isn't  time  that 
old  hot-foot?" 

"  Showers — kitchen  showers  and  linen  showers,  and  silver 
showers  for  little  Anne — little  Anne  with  the  wide,  serious 
eyes,  'the  home  of  silent  prayer' ; — well,  say,  do  you  know  who 
said  that?  It  was  Tennyson.  Nice,  tasty  piece  of  goods — 
that  man  Tennyson.  I've  handled  him  in  padded  leather 
covers ;  fancy  gilt  cloth,  plain  boards,  deckle-edges,  wide  mar 
gins,  hand-made  paper,  and  in  thirty-nine  cent  paper — and 
he  is  a  neat,  nifty  piece  of  goods  in  all  of  them — always  easy 
to  move  and  no  come  backs."  After  this  pean  to  the  poet, 


290  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Mr.  Brotherton  turned  again  to  his  meditations,  "  Little  Anne 
— Why,  it's  just  last  week  or  such  a  matter  I  wrapped  up 
Mother  Goose  for  her — just  the  other  day  she  came  in  when 
they  sent  her  off  to  school,  and  I  gave  her  a  diary — and  now 
it's  showers — "  He  shook  his  great  head,  "Well,  say — I'm 
getting  on." 

And  while  Mr.  Brotherton  mused  the  fire  burned — the  fire 
of  youth  that  glowed  in  the  heart  of  Nathan  Perry.  When 
he  wandered  back  from  college  no  one  in  particular  had 
noticed  him.  But  Anne  Sands  was  no  one  in  particular. 
And  as  no  one  in  particular  was  looking  after  Anne  and  her 
affairs,  as  a  girl  in  her  teens  she  had  focused  her  heart  upon 
the  gangling  youth,  and  there  grew  into  life  one  of  those 
matter-of-fact,  unromantic  love  affairs  that  encompass  the 
whole  heart.  For  they  are  as  commonplace  as  light  and  air 
and  are  equally  vital.  Because  their  course  is  smooth,  such 
affairs  seem  shallow.  But  let  unhappy  circumstance  break 
the  even  surface,  and  behold,  from  their  depths  comes  all  the 
beauty  of  a  great  force  diverted,  all  the  anguish  of  a  great 
passion  curbed  and  thwarted. 

In  this  democratic  age,  when  deep  emotional  experiences 
are  not  the  privilege  of  the  few,  but  the  lot  of  many,  heart 
break  is  almost  commonplace.  We  do  not  notice  it  as  it  may 
have  been  noted  in  those  chivalric  days  when  only  the  few 
had  the  finer  sensibilities  that  may  make  great  mental  suffer 
ing  possible.  So  here  in  the  commonplace  town  of  Harvey, 
in  their  commonplace  homes,  amid  their  commonplace  friends 
and  relatives,  two  commonplace  hearts  were  aching  all  un 
suspected  by  a  commonplace  world.  And  it  happened  thus : 

Anne  Sands  had  opinions  about  the  renomination  and  re 
election  of  Judge  Van  Dorn.  For  Judge  Van  Dorn's  divorce 
and  remarriage  had  offended  Anne  Sands. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  Nathan  Perry  the  aspirations  of 
Judge  Van  Dorn  meant  nothing  but  the  ambition  of  a  politi 
cian  in  politics.  So  when  Anne  and  he  had  fallen  into  the 
inevitable  discussion  of  the  Van  Dorn  case,  as  a  part  of  an 
afternoon's  talk,  indignation  flashed  upon  indifference  and 
the  girl  saw,  or  thought  she  saw  such  a  defect  in  the  charac 
ter  of  her  lover  that,  being  what  she  was,  she  had  to  protest, 
and  he  being  what  he  was — he  was  hurt  to  the  heart.  Both 


STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD     291 

lovers  spoke  plainly.  The  thing  sounded  like  a  quarrel — 
their  first ;  and  coming  from  the  Sands  house  into  the  sum 
mer  afternoon,  Nate  Perry  decided  to  go  to  Brotherton's. 
He  reflected  as  he  walked  that  Mr.  Brotherton's  remarks  on 
"showers,"  which  had  come  to  Anne  and  Nate,  might  pos 
sibly  be  premature.  And  the  reflection  was  immensely  dis 
quieting. 

A  practical  youth  was  Nathan  Perry,  with  a  mechanical 
instinct  that  gloried  in  adjustment.  He  loved  to  tinker  and 
potter  and  patch  things  up.  Now  something  was  wrong  with 
the  gearing  of  his  heart  action.  His  theory  was  that  Anne 
was  for  the  moment  crazy.  He  could  see  nothing  to  get  ex 
cited  about  over  the  renomination  and  election  of  Judge  Van 
Dorn.  The  men  in  the  mine  where  the  youth  was  working  as 
a  miner  hated  Van  Dorn,  the  people  seemed  to  distrust  him 
as  a  man  more  or  less,  but  if  he  controlled  the  nominating 
convention  that  ended  it  with  Nathan  Perry.  The  Judge's 
family  affairs  were  in  no  way  related  to  the  nomination,  as 
the  youth  saw  the  case.  Yet  they  were  affecting  the  cams 
and  cogs  and  pulleys  of  young  Mr.  Perry's  love  affairs,  and 
he  felt  the  matter  must  be  repaired,  and  put  in  running 
order.  For  he  knew  that  love  affair  was  the  mainspring  of 
his  life.  And  the  mechanic  in  him — the  Yankee  that  talked 
in  his  rasping,  high-keyed  tenor  voice,  that  shone  from  his 
thin,  lean  face,  and  cadaverous  body,  the  Yankee  in  him,  the 
dreaming,  sentimental  Yankee,  half  poet  and  half  tinker, 
fell  upon  the  problem  with  unbending  will  and  open  mind. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  there  entered  into  the  affairs  of 
Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  an  element  upon  which  he  did  not 
calculate.  For  he  was  dealing  only  with  the  material  ele 
ments  of  a  material  universe  ! 

When  Nathan  Perry  came  to  Brotherton's  he  sat  down  in 
the  midst  of  a  discussion  of  the  Judgeship  that  began  in 
rather  etherial  terms.  For  Doctor  Nesbit  was  saying : 

"Amos,  I've  got  you  cornered  if  you  consider  the  visible 
universe.  She  works  like  a  watch ;  she 's  as  predestined  as  a 
corn  shell er.  But  let  me  tell  you  something — she  isn't  all 
visible.  There's  something  back  of  matter — there's  another 
side  to  the  shield.  I  know  mighty  well  there's  a  time  when 
my  medicine  won't  help  sick  folks — and  yet  they  get  well. 


292  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

I've  seen  a  great  love  flame  up  in  a  man's  heart  or  a 
woman's  heart  or  a  child's  in  a  bed  of  torture,  and 
when  medicine  wouldn't  take  hold  I've  seen  love  burn 
through  the  wall  between  the  worlds,  and  I  have  seen  help 
come  just  as  sure  as  you  see  the  Harvey  Hook  and  Lad 
der  Company  coming  rattling  down  Market  Street !  Funny 
old  world — funny  old  world — seventy  rides  around  the 
sun — and  then  the  fireworks/'  After  puffing  away  to 
revive  his  pipe  he  said:  "I  sort  of  got  into  this  way  of 
thinking  recently  going  over  this  judgeship  fight."  He 
smoked  meditatively  then  broke  out,  "Lord,  Lord,  what  an 
iron-clad,  hog-tight,  rock-ribbed,  copper-riveted  material 
proposition  it  is  that  Tom  is  putting  up.  He's  bound  self- 
interest  with  self-interest  everywhere.  He  and  Joe  Calvin 
have  roped  old  man  Sands  in,  and  e'very  material  interest 
in  this  whole  district  is  tied  up  in  the  Van  Dorn  candidacy. 
I'm  a  child  in  a  cyclone  in  this  fight.  The  self-interest  of 
the  county  candidates,  of  all  the  deputies  who  hope  two  years 
from  now  to  be  county  candidates,  and  all  their  friends,  every 
straw  boss  at  the  shops,  in  the  smelters,  in  the  mines — and 
all  the  men  who  are  near  them  and  want  to  be  straw  bosses, 
every  merchant  who  is  caught  in  the  old  spider's  web  with 
a  ninety-day  note ;  every  street-car  conductor,  every  employee 
of  the  light  company,  every  man  at  the  waterworks  plant, 
every  man  at  the  gas  plant,  the  telephone  linemen — every 
human  being  that  dances  in  the  great  woof  of  this  little 
spider's  web  feels  the  pull  of  devilish  material  power." 

Amos  Adams  threw  back  his  grizzled  head  in  a  laugh  that 
failed  to  vocalize.  "Well,  Jim,  according  to  your  account 
you're  liable  to  get  burned  and  singed  and  disfigured  until 
you're  as  useless  in  politics  as  this  old  Amos  Adams — the 
spook  chaser ! ' ' 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  Amos  Adams's  voice.  "It's 
all  right,  Jim — I  have  no  complaint  to  make  against  life. 
Forty  years  ago  Dan  Sands  got  the  first  girl  I  ever  loved.  I 
went  to  war;  he  paid  his  bounty  and  married  the  girl.  That 
was  a  long  time  ago.  I  often  think  of  the  girl — it's  no  lack 
of  faith  to  Mary.  And  I  have  the  memory  of  the  war — of 
that  Day  at  Peach  Tree  Creek  with  all  the  wonderful  exulting 
joy  of  that  charge  and  what  God  gave  me  to  do.  This  but- 


STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD     293 

ton,"  he  put  his  thumb  under  the  Loyal  Legion  emblem  in  his 
warped  coat  lapel,  "this  button  is  more  fragrant  than  any 
flower  on  earth  to  my  heart.  Dan  Sands  has  had  five  wives ; 
he  missed  the  hardship  of  the  war.  He  has  a  son  by  her. 
Jim,"  said  Amos  Adams  as  he  opened  his  eyes,  "if  you  knew 
how  it  has  cut  into  my  heart  year  by  year  to  see  the  beautiful 
soul  that  Hester  Haley  gave  to  Morty  decay  under  the  blight 
of  his  father — but  you  can't."  He  sighed.  "Yet  there  is 
still  her  soul  in  him — gentle,  kind,  trying  to  do  the  right 
thing — but  tied  and  hobbled  by  life  with  his  father.  Grant 
may  be  wrong,  Doctor,"  cried  the  father,  raising  his  hand 
excitedly,  "he  may  be  crazy,  and  I  know  they  laugh  at  him 
up  town  here — for  a  fool  and  the  son  of  a  fool;  he  certainly 
doesn't  know  how  he  is  going  to  do  all  the  things  he  dreams 
of  doing — but  that  is  not  the  point.  The  important  thing  is 
that  he  is  having  his  dream !  For  by  the  Eternal,  Jim  Nes- 
bit,  I'd  rather  feel  that  my  boy  was  even  a  small  part  of  the 
life  force  of  his  planet  pushing  forward — I'd  rather  be  the 
father  of  that  boy — I  'd  rather  be  old  Amos  Adams  the  spook 
chaser — than  Dan  Sands  with  his  million.  I've  been  happier, 
Jim,  with  the  memory  of  my  Mary  than  he  with  his  five  wives. 
I'd  rather  be  on  the  point  of  the  drill  of  life  and  mangled 
there,  than  to  have  my  soul  rot  in  greed." 

The  Doctor  puffed  on  his  pipe.  "Well,  Amos,"  he  re 
turned  quietly,  "I  suppose  if  a  man  wants  to  get  all  messed 
up  as  one  of  the  points  of  the  drill  of  life,  as  you  call  it — it's 
easy  enough  to  find  a  place  for  the  sacrifice.  I  admire  Grant; 
but  someway,"  his  falsetto  broke  out,  "I  have  thought  there 
was  a  little  something  in  the  bread-and-butter  proposition." 

' '  A  little,  Doctor  Jim — but  not  as  much  as  you  ?d  think ! ' ' 
answered  Amos. 

"Nevertheless  in  this  fight  here  in  Greeley  County,  I'm 
quietly  lining  up  a  few  county  delegates,  and  picking  out  a 
few  trusty  friends  who  will  show  up  at  the  caucuses,  and 
Grant  has  a  handful  of  crazy  Ikes  that  I  am  going  to  use  in 
my  business,  and  if  we  win  it  will  be  a  practical  proposition 
— my  head  against  Tom's." 

The  Doctor  rose.  Amos  Adams  stopped  him  with  "Don't 
be  too  sure  of  that,  Jim ;  I  got  a  writing  from  Mr.  Left  last 
night  and  he  says — " 


294  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

"Hold  on,  Ainos— hold  on,"  squeaked  the  Doctor's  fal 
setto;  ''until  Mr.  Left  is  registered  in  the  Third  Ward— we 
won't  bother  with  him  until  after  the  convention." 

The  Doctor  left  the  place  smiling  at  Amos  and  glancing 
casually  at  young  Mr.  Perry.  The  dissertation  had  been  a 
hard  strain  on  the  practical  mind  of  young  Mr.  Perry,  and 
while  he  was  fumbling  his  way  through  the  mazes  of  what  he 
had  heard,  Amos  Adams  left  the  shop  and  another  practical 
man^very  much  after  Nathan  Perry's  own  heart  came  in. 
Daniel  Sands  had  no  cosmic  problems  on  his  mind  with  which 
to  befuddle  young  Perry.  Daniel  Sands  was  a  seedy  little 
old  man  of  nearly  three  score  years  and  ten;  his  dull,  fishy 
eyes  framed  in  red  lids  looked  shiftily  at  one  as  though  he 
was  forever  preoccupied  in  casting  up  sums  in  interest.  His 
skin  was  splotched  and  dirty,  a  kind  of  scale  seemed  to  be 
growing  over  it,  and  his  long,  thin  nose  stuck  out  of  his 
shaggy,  ill-kept  whiskers  like  a  sharp  snout,  attenuated  by1 
rooting  in  money.  When  he  smiled,  which  was  rarely,  the 
false  quality  of  his  smile  seemed  expressed  by  his  false  teeth 
that  were  forever  falling  out  of  place  when  he  loosed  his 
facial  muscles.  He  walked  rather  stealthily  back  to  the  desk 
where  the  proprietor  of  the  shop  was  working ;  but  he  spoke 
loud  enough  for  Nate  Perry's  practical  ear  to  comprehend 
the  elder  man's  mission. 

"George,  I've  got  to  be  out  of  town  for  the  next  ten  days, 
and  the  county  convention  will  meet  when  I'm  gone."  He 
stopped,  and  cleared  his  throat.  Mr.  Brotherton  knew 
what  was  coming.  "I  just  called  to  say  that  we're  expect 
ing  you  to  do  all  you  can  for  Tom."  He  paused.  Mr. 
Brotherton  was  about  to  reply  when  the  old  man  smiled  his 
false  smile  and  added : 

"Of  course,  we  can't  afford  to  let  our  good  Doctor's  family 
affairs  interfere  with  business.  And  George, ' '  he  concluded, 
"just  tell  the  boys  to  put  Morty  on  in  my  place.  And 
George,  you  kind  of  sit  by  Morty,  and  see  that  he  gets  his  vote 
in  right.  Morty's  a  good  boy,  George — but  he  someway 
doesn't  get  interested  in  things  as  I  like  to  see  him.  He'll 
be  all  right  if  you'll  just  fix  his  ballot  in  the  convention  and 
see  that  he  votes  it."  He  blinked  his  dull,  red  eyes  at  the 
book  seller  and  dropped  his  voice. 


STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD     295 

"I  noticed  your  paper  as  I  passed  the  note  counter  just 
now ;  some  of  it  will  be  due  while  I  'm  gone ;  I  '11  tell  'em  to 
renew  it  if  you  want  it. ' '  He  smiled  again,  and  Mr.  Broth- 
erton  answered,  ''Very  well — I'll  see  that  Morty  votes  right, 
Mr.  Sands, ' '  and  solemnly  went  back  to  his  ledger.  And  thus 
the  practical  mind  of  Nathan  Perry  had  its  first  practical 
lesson  in  practical  politics — a  lesson  which  soon  afterwards 
produced  highly  practical  results. 

Up  and  down  Market  Street  tiptoed  Daniel  Sands  that 
day,  tightening  his  web  of  business  and  politics.  Busily  he 
fluttered  over  the  web,  his  water  pipes,  his  gas  pipes,  his 
electric  wires.  The  pathway  to  the  trade  of  the  miners  and 
the  men  in  the  shops  and  smelters  lay  through  his  door. 
Material  prosperity  for  every  merchant  and  every  clerk  in 
Market  Street  lay  in  the  paunch  of  the  old  spider,  and  he 
could  spin  it  out  or  draw  it  in  as  he  chose.  It  was  not  usual 
for  him  to  appear  on  Market  Street.  Dr.  Nesbit  had  always 
been  his  vicegerent.  And  often  it  had  pleased  the  Doctor 
to  pretend  that  he  was  seeking  their  aid  as  friends  and  get 
ting  it  solely  upon  the  high  grounds  of  friendship. 

But  as  the  Doctor  stood  by  his  office  window  that  day  and 
saw  the  old  spider  dancing  up  and  down  the  web,  Dr.  Nesbit 
knew  the  truth — and  the  truth  was  wormwood  in  his  mouth — 
that  he  had  been  only  an  errand  boy  between  greed  in  the 
bank  and  self-interest  in  the  stores.  In  a  flash,  a  merciless, 
cynical  flash,  he  looked  into  his  life  in  the  capital,  and  there 
he  saw  with  sickening  distinctness  that  with  all  his  power  as 
a  boss,  with  his  control  over  Senators  and  Governors  and 
courts  and  legislatures,  he  was  still  the  errand  boy — that  he 
reigned  as  boss  only  because  he  could  be  trusted  by  those  who 
controlled  the  great  aggregations  of  capital  in  the  state — the 
railroads,  the  insurance  companies,  the  brewers,  the  public 
service  corporations.  In  the  street  below  walked  a  flashy 
youth  who  went  in  and  out  of  the  saloons  in  obvious  pride 
of  being.  His  complacent  smile,  his  evident  glory  in  him 
self,  made  Dr.  Nesbit  turn  away  and  shut  his  eyes  in  shame. 
He  had  loathed  the  youth  as  a  person  unspeakable.  Yet  the 
youth  also  was  a  messenger — the  errand  boy  of  vice  in  South 
Harvey  who  doubtless  thought  himself  a  person  of  great 
power  and  consequence.  And  the  difference  between  an 


296  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

errand  boy  of  greed  and  the  errand  boy  of  vice  was  not 
sufficient  to  revive  the  Doctor 's  spirits.  So  the  Doctor,  sadly 
sobered,  left  the  window.  The  gay  enthusiasm  of  the  diver 
plunging  for  the  pearl  was  gone  from  the  depressed  little 
white  clad  figure.  He  was  finding  his  pearl  a  burden  rather 
than  a  joy. 

That  evening  Morty  Sands,  resplendent  in  purple  and  fine 
linen — the  purple  being  a  gorgeous  necktie,  and  the  fine  linen 
a  most  sumptuous  tailor-made  shirt  waist  above  a  pair  of 
white  broadcloth  trousers  and  silk  hose,  and  under  a  fifty 
dollar  Panama  hat,  tripped  into  the  Brotherton  store  for  his 
weekly  armload  of  reading  and  tobacco. 

"Morty,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton,  after  the  young  man  had 
picked  out  the  latest  word  in  literature  and  nicotine,  "your 
father  was  in  here  to-day  with  instructions  for  me  to 
ohaperone  you  through  the  county  convention  Saturday, — 
you'll  be  on  the  delegation." 

The  young  man  blinked  good  naturedly.  "I  haven't  got 
the  intellect  to  go  through  with  it,  George," 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,  Morty,"  returned  Mr.  Brotherton, 
expansively.  "The  Governor  wants  me  to  be  sure  you  vote 
for  Van  Dorn — that's  about  all  there  is  in  the  convention. 
Old  Linen  Pants  is  to  name  the  delegates  to  the  State  and 
congressional  conventions — they're  trying  to  let  the  old  man 
down  easy — not  to  beat  him  out  of  his  State  and  congressional 
leadership." 

The  young  man  thought  for  a  moment  then  smiled  up  into 
the  big  moon-face  of  Brotherton — "All  right,  Georgie,  I  sup 
pose  I'll  have  to  cast  my  unfettered  vote  for  Van  Dorn, 
though  as  a  sporting  proposition  my  sympathies  are  with  the 
other  side." 

"Well,  say — you  orter  'a'  heard  a  talk  I  heard  Doc  Nesbit 
give  this  afternoon.  That  old  sinner  will  be  shouting  on 
the  mourner's  bench  soon — if  he  doesn't  check  up." 

Morty  looked  up  from  his  magazine  to  say:  "George — 
it's  Laura.  A  man  couldn't  go  with  her  through  all  she's 
gone  through  without  being  more  of  a  man  for  it.  When  I 
took  a  turn  in  the  mining  business  last  spring  I  found  that 
the  people  down  in  South  Harvey  just  naturally  love  her  to 
death.  They'll  do  more  or  less  for  Grant  Adams.  He's 


STORY  OUTSIDE  OF  THE  MATERIAL  WORLD     297 

getting  the  men  organized  and  they  look  up  to  him  in  a 
way.  But  they  get  right  down  on  their  marrow  bones  and 
love  Laura. ' ' 

Morty  smiled  reflectively :  ' '  I  kind  of  got  the  habit  myself 
once — and  I  seem  someway  never  to  have  got  over  it — much ! 
But,  she  won't  even  look  my  way.  She  takes  my  money— 
for  her  kindergarten.  But  that  is  all.  She  won't  let  me 
take  her  home  in  my  trap,  nor  let  me  buy  her  lunch — why 
she  pays  more  attention  to  Grant  Adams  with  his  steel  claw 
than  to  my  strong  right  arm !  About  all  she  lets  me  do  is 
distribute  flower  seeds.  George,"  he  concluded  ruefully, 
"  I  Ve  toted  around  enough  touch-me-nots  and  coxcomb  seeds 
this  spring  for  that  girl  to  paint  South  Harvey  ringed, 
streaked  and  striped." 

There  the  conversation  switched  to  Captain  Morton's  stock 
company,  and  the  endeavor  to  get  the  Household  Horse  on  the 
market.  The  young  man  listened  and  smiled,  was  inter 
ested,  as  George  Brotherton  intended  he  should  be.  But 
Morty  went  out  saying  that  he  had  no  money  but  his  allow 
ance — which  was  six  months  overdrawn — and  there  the  mat 
ter  rested. 

In  a  few  days,  a  free  people  arose  and  nominated  their 
delegates  to  the  Greeley  County  convention  and  the  night 
before  the  event  excitement  in  Harvey  was  intense.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  state  of  public  sentiment.  It  was 
against  Tom  Van  Dorn.  But  on  the  other  hand,  no  one 
seriously  expected  to  defeat  him.  For  every  one  knew  that 
he  controlled  the  organization — even  against  the  boss.  Yet 
vaguely  the  people  hoped  that  their  institutions  would  in 
some  way  fail  those  who  controlled,  and  would  thus  register 
public  sentiment.  But  the  night  the  delegates  were  elected, 
it  seemed  apparent  that  Van  Dorn  had  won.  Yet  both  sides 
claimed  the  victory.  And  among  others  of  the  free  people 
elected  to  the  Convention  to  cast  a  free  vote  for  Judge  Van 
Dorn,  was  Nathan  Perry.  He  was  put  on  the  delegation  to 
look  after  his  father's  interests.  Van  Dorn  was  a  practical 
man,  Kyle  Perry  was  a  practical  man  and  they  knew  Nate 
Perry  was  a  practical  youth.  But  while  Tom  Van  Dora 
slept  upon  the  assurance  of  victory,  Nate  Perry  was  per 
turbed. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WHEREIN    MORTY    SANDS    MAKES    A    FEW    SENSIBLE   REMARKS 
IN   PUBLIC 

WHEN  Mortimer  Sands  came  down  town  Saturday 
morning,  two  hours  before  the  convention  met,  he 
found  the  courthouse  yard  black  with  prospective 
delegates  and  also  he  found  that  the  Judge's  friends  were  in 
a  majority  in  the  crowd.  So  evident  was  their  ascendancy 
that  the  Nesbit  forces  had  conceded  to  the  Judge  the  right 
to  organize  the  convention.  At  eleven  o'clock  the  crowd, 
merchants,  clerks,  professional  men,  working  men  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  delegates  from  the  surrounding  country 
towns,  and  farmers — a  throng  of  three  hundred  men,  began 
to  crowd  into  the  hot  ''Opera  House."  So  young  Mr.  Sands, 
with  his  finger  in  a  book  to  keep  his  place,  followed  the  crowd 
to  the  hall,  and  took  his  seat  with  the  Fourth  Ward  delega 
tion.  Having  done  this  he  considered  that  his  full  duty 
to  God  and  man  had  been  performed.  He  found  Nathan 
Perry  sitting  beside  him  and  said : 

"Well,  Nate,  here's  where  Anne's  great  heart  breaks — 
I  suppose?" 

Nathan  nodded  and  asked:  "I  presume  it's  all  over  but 
the  shouting." 

"All  over,"  answered  the  elder  young  man  as  he  dived 
into  his  book.  As  he  read  he  realized  that  the  convention 
had  chosen  Captain  Morton — a  partisan  of  the  Judge — for 
chairman.  The  hot,  stifling  air  of  the  room  was  thick  with 
the  smoke  of  cheap  tobacco.  Morty  Sands  grew  nervous  and 
irritated  during  the  preliminary  motions  of  the  organization. 
Even  as  a  sporting  event  the  odds  on  Van  Dorn  were  too 
heavy  to  promote  excitement.  He  went  out  for  a  breath  of 
air.  When  he  reentered  Judge  Van  Dorn  was  making  the 
opening  speech  of  the  convention.  It  was  a  fervid  effort; 

298 


A  FEW  SENSIBLE  REMARKS  299 

the  Spanish  war  was  then  in  progress  so  the  speech  was  full 
of  allusions  to  what  the  Judge  was  pleased  to  call  "libertah" 
and  "our  common  countrah"  and  our  sacred  "dutah"  to 
"humanitah."  Naturally  the  delegates  who  were  for  the 
Judge's  renomination  displayed  much  enthusiasm,  and  it 
was  a  noisy  moment.  When  the  Judge  closed  his  remarks — 
tearfully  of  course — and  took  his  seat  as  chairman  of  the 
Fourth  Ward  delegation,  which  was  supposed  to  be  for  him 
unanimously  as  it  was  his  home  ward,  Morty  noticed  that 
while  the  Judge  sat  grand  and  austere  in  the  aisle  seat  with 
his  eyes  partly  closed  as  one  who  is  recovering  from  a  great 
mental  effort,  his  half-closed  eyes  were  following  Mr.  Joseph 
Calvin,  who  was  buzzing  about  the  room  distributing  among 
the  delegates  meal  tickets  and  saloon  checks  good  for  food 
for  man  and  beast  at  the  various  establishments  of  public 
entertainment. 

Morty  learned  from  George  Brotherton  that  as  the  county 
officers  were  to  be  renominated  without  opposition,  and  as  the 
platform  had  been  agreed  to  the  day  before,  and  as  the 
county  central  committeemen  had  been  chosen  the  night 
before  at  the  caucuses,  the  convention  was  to  be  a  short  horse 
soon  curried.  Of  course,  Captain  Morton  as  permanent 
chairman  made  a  speech — with  suitable  eulogies  to  the  boys 
who  wore  the  blue.  It  was  the  speech  the  convention  had 
heard  many  times  before,  but  always  enjoyed — and  as  he 
closed  he  asked  rather  grandly, ' '  and  now  what  is  the  further 
pleasure  of  the  convention  ? 7 ' 

It  was  Mr.  Calvin's  pleasure,  as  expressed  in  a  motion, 
that  the  secretary  be  instructed  to  cast  the  vote  of  the  con 
vention  for  the  renomination  of  the  entire  county  ticket,  and 
further  that  Senator  James  Nesbit,  in  view  of  his  leadership 
of  the  party  in  the  State,  be  requested  to  name  the  delegates 
to  the  State  and  congressional  conventions  and  that  Judge 
Thomas  Van  Dorn — cheers  led  by  Dick  Bowman — Thomas 
Van  Dorn  be  requested  to  name  the  delegates  to  the  judicial 
district  convention.  Cheers  and  many  cries  of  no,  no,  no, 
greeted  the  Calvin  motion.  It  was  seconded  and  stated  by 
the  chair  and  again  cheered  and  roared  at.  Dr.  Nesbit  rose, 
and  in  his  mild,  treble  voice  protested  against  the  naming  of 
the  delegates  to  the  State  and  congressional  and  judicial  con- 


300  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

ventions.  He  said  that  while  it  had  been  the  practice  in  the 
past,  he  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  time  had  coine  to  let  the 
Convention  itself  choose  by  wards  and  precincts  and  town 
ships  its  delegates  to  these  conventions.  He  said  further  that 
as  for  the  State  and  congressional  delegates,  they  couldn't 
pick  a  delegation  of  twenty  men  in  the  room  if  they  tried,  that 
would  not  contain  a  majority  which  he  could  work  with.  At 
which  there  was  cheering  from  the  anti-Van  Dorn  crowd — 
but  it  was  clear  that  they  were  in  the  minority.  No  further 
discussion  seemed  to  be  expected  and  the  Captain  was  about 
to  put  the  motion,  when  from  among  the  delegates  from 
South  Harvey  there  arose  the  red  poll  of  Grant  Adams. 
From  the  Harvey  delegates  he  met  the  glare  of  distrust  due 
from  any  crowd  of  merchants  and  clerks  to  any  labor  agi 
tator.  Morty  could  see  from  the  face  of  Dr.  Nesbit  that  he 
was  surprised.  Judge  Van  Doru,  who  sat  near  young  Sands, 
looked  mildly  interested.  After  he  was  recognized,  Grant 
in  an  impassioned  voice  began  to  talk  of  the  inherent  right 
of  the  Nesbit  motion,  providing  that  each  precinct  or  ward 
delegation  could  name  its  own  delegates  to  the  State,  con 
gressional  and  judicial  conventions. 

If  the  motion  prevailed,  Judge  Van  Dorn  would  have  a 
divided  delegation  from  Greeley  county  to  the  judicial  con 
vention,  as  some  of  the  precincts  and  wards  were  against  him, 
though  a  majority  of  the  united  convention  was  for  him. 
Grant  Adams,  swinging  his  iron  claw,  was  explaining  this 
to  the  convention.  He  was  appealing  passionately  for  the 
right  of  proportional  representation ;  holding  that  the  minor 
ity  had  rights  of  representation  that  the  majority  should 
not  deny. 

Judge  Van  Dorn,  without  rising,  had  sneered  across  the 
room  in  a  snarling  voice:  "Ah,  you  socialist!"  Once  he 
had  growled:  "None  of  your  red  mouthed  ranting  here!" 
Finally,  as  it  was  evident  that  Grant's  remarks  were  inter 
esting  the  workmen  on  the  delegations,  Van  Dorn,  still  seated, 
called  out: 

"Here,  you — what  right  have  you  to  address  this  conven 
tion?" 

"I  am  a  regularly  accredited  delegate  from  South  Harvey, 
holding  the  proxy — " 


A  FEW  SENSIBLE  REMARKS  301 

He  got  no  further. 

The  Van  Dorn  delegates  roared,  "Put  him  out.  No 
proxies  go,"  and  began  hooting  and  jeering.  It  was  ob 
vious  that  Van  Dorn  had  the  crowd  with  him.  He  let  them 
roar  at  Grant,  who  stood  quietly,  demanding  from  time  to 
time  that  the  chair  should  restore  order.  Captain  Morton 
hammered  the  table  with  his  gavel,  but  the  Van  Dorn  crowd 
continued  to  hoot  and  howl.  Finally  Judge  Van  Dorn  rose 
and  with  great  elaborateness  of  parliamentary  form  ^  ad 
dressed  the  chair  asking  to  be  permitted  to  ask  his  friend 
with  a  proxy  one  question. 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  savagely,  like  characters 
symbolizing  forces  in  a  play;  complaisance  and  discontent. 
Behind  Grant  was  the  unrest  and  upheaval  of  a  class  coming 
into  consciousness  and  tremendously  dynamic,  while  Van 
Dorn  stood  for  those  who  had  won  their  fight  and  were  static 
and  self-satisfied.  He  twirled  his  mustache.  Grant  raised 
his  steel  claw  as  if  to  strike ;  Van  Dorn  spoke,  and  in  a  bark 
ing,  vicious,  raucous  tone  intended  to  annihilate  his  adver 
sary,  asked: 

"Will  you  tell  this  convention  in  the  interest  of  fairness, 
what,  if  any,  personal  and  private  motives  you  have  in  help 
ing  Dr.  Nesbit  inject  a  family  quarrel  into  public  matters  in 
this  county  V1 

A  moment's  silence  greeted  the  lawyer's  insolently  framed 
question.  Mortimer  Sands  saw  Dr.  Nesbit  go  white,  start  to 
rise,  and  sit  down,  and  saw  dawning  on  the  face  of  Grant 
Adams  the  realization  of  what  the  question  meant.  But  be 
fore  he  could  speak  the  mob  broke  loose;  hisses,  cheers  and 
the  roar  of  partisan  and  opposition  filled  the  room.  Grant 
Adams  tried  to  speak;  but  no  one  would  hear  him.  He 
started  down  the  aisle  toward  Van  Dorn,  his  red  hair  flashing 
like  a  banner  of  wrath,  menacing  the  Judge  with  the  steel 
claw  upraised.  Dr.  Nesbit  stopped  Grant.  The  insult  had 
been  so  covert,  so  cowardly,  that  only  in  resenting  its 
implication  would  there  be  scandal. 

Mortimer  Sands  closed  his  book.  He  saw  Judge  Van  Dorn 
laugh,  and  heard  him  say  to  George  Brotherton  who  sat  be 
side  young  Sands : 

"I  plugged  that  damn  pie-face!" 


302  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Nathan  Perry,  the  practical  young  man  sitting  in  the 
Fourth  ward  delegation,  heard  the  Judge  and  nudged  Morty 
Sands.  Morty  Sands 's  sporting  blood  rose  in  him.  "The 
pup,"  he  whispered  to  Nate.  "He's  taking  a  shot  at 
Laura. ' ' 

The  crowd  gradually  grew  calm.  There  being  no  further 
discussion,  Captain  Morton  put  the  motion  of  Joseph  Calvin 
to  let  the  majority  of  the  convention  name  all  delegates  to  the 
superior  conventions.  The  roar  of  ayes  overwhelmed  the 
blat  of  noes.  It  was  clear  that  the  Calvin  motion  had 
carried.  The  Doctor  was  defeated.  But  before  the  chair 
announced  the  vote  the  pompadour  of  the  little  man  rose 
quickly  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  aisle  and  asked  in  his  piping 
treble  for  a  vote  by  wards  and  precincts. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed  the  Doctor's  sug 
gestion,  Nathan  Perry's  face,  which  gradually  had  been 
growing  stony  and  hard,  cracked  in  a  mean  smile  as  he 
leaned  over  to  Morty  and  whispered : 

"Morty,  can  you  stand  for  that— that  damned  hound's 
snap  at  Laura  Van?  By  grabby  I  can't — I  won't!" 

"Well,  let's  raise  hell,  Nate — I'm  with  you.  I  owe  him 
nothing,"  said  the  guileless  and  amiable  Morty. 

Judge  Van  Dorn  rose  grandly  and  with  great  elegance  of 
diction  agreed  with  the  Doctor 's  ' '  excellent  suggestion. ' '  So 
tickets  were  passed  about  containing  the  words  yes  and  no, 
and  hats  were  passed  down  delegation  lines  and  the  dele 
gates  put  the  ballots  in  the  hats  and  the  chairmen  of  delega 
tions  appointed  tellers  and  so  the  ballots  were  counted. 
When  the  Fourth  ward  balloting  was  finished,  Judge  Van 
Dorn  looked  puzzled.  He  was  three  votes  short  of  unanimity. 
His  vanity  was  pricked.  He  believed  he  had  a  solid  delega 
tion  and  proposed  to  have  it.  When  in  the  roll  call  the 
Fourth  ward  delegation  was  reached  (it  was  the  fourth  pre 
cinct  on  the  secretary's  roll)  the  Judge,  as  chairman  of  the 
Fourth  warders,  rose,  blandly  and  complacently,  and  an 
nounced:  "Ward  Four  casts  twenty-five  votes  'yes'  and 
three  votes  'no.'  I  demand  a  poll  of  the  delegation." 

George  Brotherton  rose  when  the  clerk  of  the  convention 
called  the  roll  and  voted  a  weak,  husky  'no'  and  sat  down 
sheepishly  under  the  Judge's  glare. 


A  FEW  SENSIBLE  REMARKS  303 

Down  the  list  came  the  clerk  reading  the  names  of 
delegates.  Finally  he  called  "Mortimer  Sands,"  and  the 
young  man  rose,  smiling  and  calm,  and  looking  the  Judge 
fairly  in  the  eye  cried,  ' '  I  vote  no  ! " 

Then  pandemonium  broke  loose.  The  convention  was  bed 
lam.  The  friends  of  the  Judge  were  confounded.  They 
did  not  know  what  it  meant. 

The  clerk  called  Nathan  Perry. 

"No,"  he  cried  as  he  looked  maliciously  into  the  Judge's 
beady  eyes. 

Then  there  was  no  doubt.  For  the  relations  of  Wright  & 
Perry  were  so  close  to  Daniel  Sands  that  no  one  could  mistake 
the  meaning  of  young  Perry's  vote,  and  then  had  not  the 
whole  town  read  of  the  "showers"  for  Anne  Sands?  Those 
who  opposed  the  Judge  were  whispering  that  the  old  spider 
had  turned  against  the  Judge.  Men  who  were  under  obli 
gations  to  the  Traders'  Bank  were  puzzled  but  not  in  doubt. 
There  was  a  general  buzzing  among  the  delegations.  The 
desertion  of  Mortimer  Sands  and  Nathan  Perry  was  one  of 
those  wholly  unexpected  events  that  sometimes  make  panics 
in  politics.  The  Judge  could  see  that  in  one  or  two  cases 
delegations  were  balloting  again.  "Fifth  ward,"  called  the 
clerk. 

"Fifth  ward  not  ready,"  replied  the  chairman. 

"Hancock  township,  Soldier  precinct,"  called  the  clerk. 

"Soldier  precinct  not  ready,"  answered  the  chairman. 

The  next  precinct  cast  its  vote  No,  and  the  next  precinct 
cast  its  vote  7  yes  and  10  no  and  a  poll  was  demanded  and 
the  vote  was  a  tie.  The  power  of  the  name  of  Sands  in 
Greeley  county  was  working  like  a  yeast. 

"Well,  boys,"  whispered  Mr.  Brotherton  to  Morty  as  two 
townships  were  passed  while  they  were  reballoting,  "Well, 
boys — you  sure  have  played  hell. ' '  He  was  mopping  his  red 
brow,  and  to  a  look  of  inquiry  from  Morty  Mr.  Brotherton  ex 
plained:  "You've  beaten  the  Judge.  They  all  think  that 
it's  your  father's  idea  to  knife  him,  and  the  foremen  of  the 
mines  who  are  running  these  county  delegations  and  the 
South  Harvey  contingent  are  changing  their  votes — that's 
how!" 

In  another  instant  Morty  Sands  was  on  his  feet.     He 


304  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

stood  on  a  seat  above  the  crowd,  a  slim,  keen-faced,  oldish 
figure.  When  he  called  upon  the  chairman  a  hush  fell  over 
the  crowd.  When  he  began  to  speak  he  could  feel  the  eyes 
of  the  crowd  boring  into  him.  "I  wish  to  state,"  he  said 
hesitatingly,  then  his  courage  came,  "that  my  vote  against 
this  resolution,  was  due  entirely  to  the  inferential  endorse 
ment  of  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn,"  this  time  the  anti-Van 
Dorri  roar  was  overwhelming,  deafening,  "that  the  resolu 
tion  contained." 

Another  roar,  it  seemed  to  the  Judge  as  from  a  pit  of 
beasts,  greeted  this  period.  "But  I  also  wish  to  make  it 
clear,"  continued  the  young  man,  "that  in  this  position  I 
am  representing  only  my  own  views.  I  have  not  been  in 
structed  by  my  father  how  to  cast  this  ballot.  For  you 
know  as  well  as  I  how  he  would  vote."  The  roar  from  the 
anti-Van  Dorn  crowd  came  back  again,  stronger  than  ever. 
The  convention  had  put  its  own  interpretation  upon  his 
words.  They  knew  he  was  merely  making  it  plainer  that  the 
old  spider  had  caught  Judge  Van  Dorn  in  the  web,  and  for 
some  reason  was  sucking  out  his  vitals.  Morty  sat  down  with 
the  sense  of  duty  well  done,  and  again  Mr.  Brotherton 
leaned  over  and  whispered,  "Well,  you  did  a  good  job — you 
put  the  trimmings  on  right — hello,  we're  going  to  vote 
again."  Again  the  young  man  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
cried  amid  the  noise,  which  sank  almost  instantly  as  they 
saw  who  was  trying  to  speak:  "I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that 
so  far  as  I  know  my  father  is  for  Judge  Van  Dorn, ' '  but  the 
crowd  only  laughed,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  thought 
Morty  was  playing  with  them.  As  Morty  Sands  sat  down 
Nathan  Perry  rose  and  in  his  high,  strong,  wire-edged  tenor 
cried:  "Men,  I'm  voting  only  myself.  But  when  a  man 
shows  doghair  as  Judge  Van  Dorn  showed  it  to  this  conven 
tion  in  that  question  to  Grant  Adams — all  hell  can't  hold  me 
to — "  But  the  roar  of  the  crowd  drowned  the  close  of  the 
sentence.  The  mob  knew  nothing  of  the  light  that  had 
dawned  in  Nathan  Perry 's  heart.  The  crowd  knew  only  that 
the  son  and  the  future  son-in-law  of  the  old  spider  had 
turned  on  Van  Dorn,  and  that  he  was  marked  for  slaughter 
so  it  proceeded  with  the  butchering  which  gave  it  great  per 
sonal  felicity.  Men  howled  their  real  convictions  and  Tom 


A  FEW  SENSIBLE  REMARKS  305 

Van  Dora's  universe  tottered.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  was 
howled  down. 

"Vote — vote,  vote,"  they  cried.  The  Fourth  ward  bal 
loted  again  and  the  vote  stood  *  *  Yes,  fifteen,  no,  twelve, ' '  and 
the  proud  face  of  the  suave  Judge  Van  Dorn  turned  white 
with  rage,  and  the  red  scar  nickered  like  lightning  across 
his  forehead.  The  voting  could  not  proceed.  For  men  were 
running  about  the  room,  and  Joseph  Calvin  was  hovering 
over  the  South  Harvey  delegation  like  a  buzzard.  Morty 
Sands  suspected  Calvin's  mission.  The  young  man  rose  and 
ran  to  Dr.  Nesbit  and  whispered:  "Doctor,  Nate's  got  seven 
hundred  dollars  in  the  bank — see  what  Calvin  is  doing?  I 
can  get  it  up  here  in  three  minutes.  Can  you  use  it  to  help  ? ' ' 

The  Doctor  ran  his  hand  over  his  graying  pompadour  and 
smiled  and  shook  his  head.  In  the  din  he  leaned  over  and 
piped.  "Touch  not,  taste  not,  handle  not,  Morty — I've  sworn 
oft*.  Teetotler,"  he  laughed  excitedly.  Young  Sands  saw  a 
bill  flash  in  Mr.  Calvin's  hands  and  disappear  in  Dick  Bow 
man's  pockets. 

"No  law  against  it,"  chirped  the  Doctor,  "except  God 
Almighty's,  and  He  has  no  jurisdiction  in  Judge  Tom's  dis 
trict." 

As  they  stood  watching  Calvin  peddle  his  bills  the  conven 
tion  saw  what  he  was  doing.  A  fear  seized  the  decent  men 
in  the  convention  that  all  who  voted  for  Van  Dorn  would  be 
suspected  of  receiving  bribes.  The  balloting  proceeded.  In 
five  minutes  the  roll  call  was  finished.  Then  before  the  re 
sult  was  announced  George  Brotherton  was  on  his  feet  saying, 
"The  Fourth  ward  desires  to  change  her  vote,"  and  while 
Brotherton  was  announcing  the  complete  desertion  of  the 
Fourth  ward  delegation,  Judge  Van  Dorn  left  the  hall. 
Men  in  mob  are  cruel  and  mad,  and  the  pack  howled  at  the 
vain  man  as  he  slunk  through  the  crowd  to  the  door. 

After  that,  delegation  after  delegation  changed  its  vote 
and  before  the  result  was  announced  Mr.  Calvin  withdrew 
his  motion,  and  the  spent  convention  only  grunted  its  ap 
proval.  Then  it  was  that  Mugs  Bowman  crowded  into  the 
room  and  handed  Nathan  Perry  this  note  scrawled  on  brown 
butcher's  paper  in  a  hand  he  knew.  "I  have  this  moment 
learned  that  you  are  a  delegate  and  must  take  a  public  stand. 


306  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Don't  let  a  word  I  have  said  influence  you.  I  stand  by  you 
whatever  you  do.  Use  your  own  judgment;  follow  your 
conscience  and  'with  God  be  the  rest.'  '  "A.  S." 

Nathan  Perry  folded  the  note,  and  as  he  put  it  in  his  vest 
pocket  he  felt  the  proud  beat  of  his  heart.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  when  the  convention  adjourned  for  noon,  Nathan  and 
Morty  Sands  ran  plumb  into  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  sitting  in  the 
back  room  of  the  bank,  wet  eyed  and  blubbering.  The  Judge 
was  slumped  over  the  big,  shining  table,  his  jaws  trembling, 
his  hands  fumbling  the  ink  stands  and  paper  weights.  His 
eyes  were  staring  and  nervous,  and  beside  him  a  whiskey 
bottle  and  glass  told  their  story.  The  man  rose,  holding  the 
table,  and  shrieked : 

''You  damned  little  fice  dog,  you — "  this  to  Morty,  "you — 
you — "  Morty  dashed  around  the  table  toward  the  Judge, 
but  before  he  could  reach  the  man  to  strike,  the  Judge  was 
moving  his  jaws  impotently,  and  grasping  the  thin  air.  His 
mouth  foamed  as  he  fell  and  he  lay,  a  shivering,  white-eyed 
horror,  upon  the  floor.  The  bank  clerks  lifted  the  figure  to  a 
leather  couch,  and  some  one  summoned  Doctor  Nesbit. 

The  Doctor  saw  the  whiskey  bottle  half  emptied  and  saw 
the  white  faced,  prostrate  figure.  The  Doctor  sent  the  clerks 
from  the  room  as  he  worked  with  the  unconscious  man,  and 
piped  to  Morty  as  he  worked,  "Nothing  serious — heat — 
temper,  whiskey — and  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit;  'vanity 
of  vanities — all  is  vanity — saith  the  preacher.'  '  Morty  and 
Nathan  left  the  room  as  the  man 's  eyes  opened  and  the 
Doctor  with  a  woman's  tenderness  brought  the  wretched, 
broken,  shattered  bundle  of  pride  back  to  consciousness. 

For  years  this  became  George  Brotherton's  favorite  story. 
He  first  told  it  to  Henry  Fenn  thus : 

"Say,  Henry,  lemme  tell  you  about  old  man  Sands.  He 
come  in  here  the  day  after  he  got  back  from  Chicago  to 
wrestle  with  me  for  letting  Morty  vote  against  Tom.  Well 
— say — I  'm  right  here  to  tell  you  that  was  some  do — all  right,, 
all  right !  You  know  he  thought  I  got  Morty  and  Nate  to 
vote  that  way  and  the  old  spider  came  hopping  in  here  like 
a  grand-daddy  long-legs  and  the  way  he  let  out  on  your 
humble — well,  say — say !  Holler — you'd  orto  heard  him  hol 
ler!  Just  spat  pizen — wow!  and  as  for  me  who'd  got  the 


A  FEW  SENSIBLE  REMARKS  307 

lad  into  the  trouble — as  for  me,"  Mr.  Brotherton  paused, 
folded  his  hand  over  his  expansive  abdomen  and  sighed 
deeply,  as  one  who  recalls  an  experience  too  deep  for  lan 
guage.  "Well,  say — I  tried  to  tell  him  I  didn't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it,  but  he  was  wound  up  with  an  eight-day 
spring !  I  knew  it  was  no  use  to  talk  sense  to  him  while  he 
was  batting  his  lights  at  me  like  a  drunk  switchman  on  a 
dark  night,  but  when  he  was  clean  run  down  I  leans  over  the 
counter  and  says  as  polite  as  a  pollywog,  'Most  kind  and 
noble  duke,'  says  I,  'you  touch  me  deeply  by  your  humptious 
words!'  says  I,  'let  me  assure  you,  your  kind  and  generous 
sentiments  will  never  be  erased  from  the  tablets  of  my  most 
grateful  memory' — just  that  way. 

"Well,  say — "  and  here  Mr.  Brotherton  let  out  his  laugh 
that  came  down  like  the  cataract  at  Ladore,  "pretty  soon 
Morty  sails  in  fresh  as  a  daisy  and  asks : 

"  'Father  been  in  here?' 

"  'Check  one  father,'  says  I. 

"  'Raising  hell?'  he  asks 

"  'Check  one  hell,'  says  I. 

"  'Well,  sir,'  says  he,  'I'm  exceedingly  sorry.' 

"  'One  sorrow  check,'  says  I. 

' '  '  Sincerely  and  truly  sorry,  George, '  he  repeats  and  '  Two 
sorrows  check,'  I  repeats  and  he  goes  on:  'Look  here, 
George,  I  know  father,  and  until  I  can  get  the  truth  into  him, 
which  won't  be  for  a  week  or  two,  I  suppose  he  may  try  to 
ruin  you ! ' 

"  'Check  one  interesting  ruin,'  says  I. 

"But  he  brought  down  his  hand  on  the  new  case  till  I  shud 
dered  for  the  glass,  and  well,  say — what  do  you  think  that 
boy  done  ?  He  pulls  out  a  roll  of  money  big  enough  to  choke 
a  cow  and  puts  it  on  the  case  and  says :  '  I  sold  my  launch 
and  drew  every  dollar  I  had  out  of  the  bank  before  father 
got  home.  Here,  take  it;  you  may  need  it  in  your  business 
until  father  calms  down/ 

"Wasn't  that  white!  I  couldn't  get  him  to  put  the 
roll  back  and  along  comes  Cap  Morton,  and  when  I  wouldn't 
take  it  the  old  man  glued  on  to  him,  and  I  'm  a  goat  if  Morty 
didn't  lend  it  to  the  Captain,  with  the  understanding  I 
could  have  it  any  time  inside  of  six  months,  and  the  Captain 


308  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

could  use  it  afterward.     That's  where  the  Captain  got  his 
money  to  build  his  shop." 

It  cost  Daniel  Sands  five  thousand  dollars  in  hard  earned 
money,  not  that  he  earned  the  money,  but  it  was  hard-earned 
nevertheless,  to  undo  the  work  of  that  convention,  and  nomi 
nate  and  elect  Thomas  Van  Dorn  district  Judge  upon  an 
independent  ticket.  And  even  when  the  work  was  done,  the 
emptiness  of  the  honor  did  not  convince  the  Judge  that  this 
is  not  a  material  world.  He  hugged  the  empty  honor  to  his 
heart  and  made  a  vast  pretense  that  it  was  real. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

BEING  NOT  A   CHAPTER   BUT  AN   INTERLUDE 

HERE  and  now  this  story  must  pause  for  a  moment. 
It  has  come  far  from  the  sunshine  and  prairie  grass 
where  it  started.  Tall  elm  trees  have  grown  from 
the  saplings  that  were  stuck  in  the  sod  thirty  years  before,  and 
they  limit  the  vision.  No  longer  can  one  see  over  the  town 
across  the  roofs  of  Market  Street  into  the  prairie.  No  longer 
even  can  one  see  from  Harvey  the  painted  sky  at  night  that 
marks  South  Harvey  and  the  industrial  towns  of  the  Wahoo 
Valley.  Harvey  is  shut  in ;  we  all  are  sometimes  by  our  com 
forts.  The  dreams  of  the  pioneers  that  haloed  the  heads  of 
those  who  came  to  Harvey  in  those  first  days — those  dreams 
are  gone.  Here  and  there  one  is  trapped  in  brick  or  wood  or 
stone  or  iron ;  and  another  glows  in  a  child  or  walks  the 
weary  ways  of  man  as  a  custom  or  an  institution  or  as  a  law 
that  brought  only  a  part  of  the  blessings  which  it  promised. 
And  the  equality  of  opportunity  for  which  these  pioneers 
crossed  the  Mississippi  and  came  into  the  prairie  uplands  of 
the  West — where  is  that  evanescent  spirit?  Certainly  it 
touched  Daniel  Sands 's  shoulder  and  he  followed  it;  it  beck 
oned  Dr.  Nesbit  and  he  followed  it  a  part  of  the  journey. 
Surely  Kyle  Perry  saw  it  for  years,  and  Captain  Morton  was 
destined  to  find  it,  gorgeous  and  iridescent.  Amos  Adams 
might  have  had  it  for  the  asking,  but  he  sought  it  only  for 
others.  It  never  came  to  Dooley  and  Hogan,  and  Williams 
and  Bowman  and  those  who  went  into  the  Valley.  Did  it 
die,  one  may  ask;  or  did  it  vanish  like  a  prairie  stream  un 
der  the  sand  to  flow  on  subterranean  and  appear  again 
strong,  purified  and  refreshed,  a  powerful  current  to  carry 
mankind  forward  ?  The  world  that  was  in  the  flux  of  dreams 
that  day  when  Harvey  began,  had  hardened  to  reality  thirty 
years  after.  Men  were  going  their  appointed  ways  working 
out  in  circumstances  the  equation  of  their  life 's  philosophy. 

309 


310  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

And  now  while  the  story  waits,  we  may  well  look  at  three 
pictures.  They  do  not  speed  the  narrative;  they  hardly 
point  morals  to  adorn  this  tale.  But  they  may  show  us 
how  living  a  creed  consistently  colors  one's  life.  For  after 
all  the  realities  of  life  are  from  within.  Events,  environ 
ment,  fortune  good  or  bad  do  not  color  life,  or  give  it  richness 
and  form  and"  value.  But  in  living  a  creed  one  makes  his 
picture.  So  let  us  look  at  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  who  boasted 
that  he  could  beat  God  at  his  own  game,  and  did.  For  all 
that  he  wanted  came  to  him,  wealth  and  fame  and  power,  and 
the  women  he  desired. 

Judge  and  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  and  her  dog  are  riding  by  in 
their  smart  rubber  tired  trap,  behind  a  highly  checked  horse 
and  with  the  dog  between  them.  They  are  not  talking. 
The  man  is  looking  at  his  gloved  hands,  at  the  horse,  at  the 
street, — where  occasionally  he  bows  and  smiles  and  never 
by  any  chance  misses  bowing  and  smiling  to  any  woman  who 
might  be  passing.  His  wife,  dressed  stiffly  and  smartly,  is 
looking  straight  ahead,  with  as  weary  a  face  as  that  of  the 
Hungarian  Spitz  beside  her.  Time,  in  the  Temple  of  Love  on 
the  hill  has  not  worn  her  bloom  off ;  it  is  all  there — and  more ; 
but  the  additional  bloom,  the  artificial  bloom,  is  visible. 
"When  she  smiles,  as  she  sometimes  smiles  at  the  men  friends 
of  the  Judge  who  greet  the  pair,  it  is  an  elaborately  mechan 
ical  smile,  with  a  distinct  beginning,  climax,  and  ending. 
Some  way  it  fails  to  convince  one  that  she  has  any  pleasure  in 
it.  The  smile  still  is  beautiful,  exceedingly  beautiful — but 
only  as  a  picture.  When  the  smile  is  garnished  with  words 
the  voice  is  low  and  musical — but  too  low  and  too  obviously 
musical.  It  does  not  reveal  the  soul  of  Margaret  Van  Dorn — 
the  soul  that  glowed  in  the  girl  who  came  to  Prospect  Town 
ship  fifteen  years  before,  with  banners  flying  to  lay  siege  to 
Harvey.  The  soul  that  glowed  through  those  wonderful 
eyes  upon  Henry  Fenn — where  is  it?  She  has  not  been 
crossed  in  any  desire  of  her  life.  She  has  enjoyed  every 
form  of  pleasure  that  money  could  buy  for  her ;  she  is  delving 
into  books  that  make  the  wrinkles  come  between  her  eye 
brows,  and  is  rubbing  the  wrinkles  out  and  the  ideas  from 
the  books  as  fast  as  they  come.  She  is  droning  a  formula 
for  happiness,  learned  of  the  books  that  make  her  head  ache, 


NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE       311 

and  is  repeating  over  and  over,  "God  is  good,  and  I  am 
God,"  as  one  who  would  plaster  truth  upon  his  consciousness 
by  the  mere  repetition  of  it.  But  the  truth  does  not  help  her. 
So  she  sits  beside  her  husband,  a  wax  work  figure  of  a  woman, 
and  he  seems  to  treat  her  as  a  wax  figure.  For  he  is  clearly 
occupied  with  his  own  affairs. 

When  he  is  not  bowing  and  smiling,  a  sneer  is  on  his  face. 
And  when  he  speaks  to  the  horse  his  voice  is  harsh  and  mean. 
He  holds  an  uiilighted  cigar  in  his  mouth  as  a  terrier  might 
hold  a  loathed  rat;  working  the  muscles  of  his  lips  at  times 
viciously  but  saying  nothing.  The  soft,  black  hat  of  his 
youthful  days  is  replaced  by  a  high,  stiff,  squarely  sawed 
felt  hat  which  he  imagines  gives  him  great  dignity.  His 
clothes  have  become  so  painfully  scrupulous  in  their  exact 
conformation  to  the  mode  that  he  looks  wooden.  He  has 
given  so  much  thought  to  the  subject  of  "wherewithal  shall 
ye  be  clothed,"  that  the  thought  in  some  queer  spiritual  curd 
ling  has  appeared  in  the  unyielding  texture  of  his  artificial 
tailored  skin,  that  seems  to  be  a  part  of  another  consciousness 
than  his  own. 

Moreover,  those  first  days  he  spent  after  the  convention 
have  chipped  the  suavity  from  his  countenance,  and  have 
written  upon  the  bland,  complacent  face  all  the  cynicism  of 
his  nature.  Triumph  makes  cynicism  arrogant,  so  the  man  is 
losing  his  mask.  His  nature  is  leering  out  of  his  eyes, 
snarling  out  of  his  mouth,  and  where  the  little,  lean  lines 
have  pared  away  the  flesh  from  his  nose,  a  greedy,  self- 
seeking  pride  is  peering  from  behind  a  great  masterful  nose. 
Thomas  Van  Dorn  should  be  in  the  adolescence  of  maturity; 
but  he  is  in  the  old  age  of  adolescence.  His  skin  has  no 
longer  the  soft  olive  texture  of  youth ;  it  is  brown  and  mot 
tled  and  leathery.  His  lips — his  lips  once  full  and  red,  are 
pursing  and  leadening. 

Thus  the  pair  go  through  the  May  twilight;  and  when 
the  electric  lights  begin  to  flash  out  at  the  corners,  thus  the 
Van  Dorns  ride  before  the  big  black  mass  of  the  temple  of 
love  that  looms  among  the  young  trees  upon  the  lawn.  The 
woman  alights  from  the  trap.  She  pauses  a  moment  upon 
the  stone  block  at  the  curbing.  The  man  makes  no  sign  of 
moving.  She  takes  the  dog  from  the  seat,  and  puts  it  on 


312  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  ground.  The  man  gathers  the  reins  tightly  in  his  hands, 
then  drops  them  again,  lights  his  cigar,  and  says  behind  his 
hands:  "I'm  going  back  downtown." 

"Oh,  you  are?7'  echoes  the  woman. 

'  *  Yes,  I  am, ' '  replies  the  man  sharply. 

The  woman  is  walking  up  the  wide  parking,  with  the  dog. 
She  makes  no  reply.  The  man  looks  at  her  a  second  or  two, 
and  drives  away,  cutting  the  horse  to  a  mad  speed  as  he 
rounds  the  corner. 

Through  the  wide  doors  into  the  broad  hall,  up  the  grand 
staircase,  through  the  luxurious  rooms  goes  the  high  Priestess 
of  the  Temple  of  Love.  It  is  a  lonely  house.  For  it  is  still 
in  a  state  of  social  siege.  So  far  as  Harvey  is  concerned,  no 
one  has  entered  it.  So  they  live  rather  quiet  lives. 

On  that  May  evening  the  mistress  of  the  great  house  sits 
in  her  bed  room  by  the  mild  electric,  trying  book  after  book, 
and  putting  each  down  in  disgust.  Philosophy  fails  to  hold 
her  attention — poetry  annoys  her;  fiction — the  book  of  the 
moment,  which  happened  to  be  "The  Damnation  of  Theron 
Ware,"  makes  her  wince,  and  so  she  reaches  under  the  read 
ing  stand,  and  brings  out  from  the  bottom  of  a  pile  of  maga 
zines  a  salacious  novel  filled  with  stories  of  illicit  amours. 
This  she  reads  until  her  cheeks  burn  and  her  lips  grow  dry 
and  she  hears  the  roll  of  a  buggy  down  the  street,  and 
knows  that  it  must  be  nearly  midnight  and  that  her  mate  is 
coming.  She  slips  the  book  back  into  its  place  of  conceal 
ment,  picks  up  "The  Harmonious  Universe,"  and  walks  with 
some  show  of  grandeur  in  her  trailing  garments  down  the 
stairs  to  greet  her  lord. 

* '  You  up  ?  "  he  asks.  He  glances  at  the  book  and  continues : 
"Reading  that  damn  trash?  Why  don't  you  read  Browning 
or  Thackeray  or — if  you  want  philosophy  Emerson  or  Car- 
lyle?  That's  rot." 

He  puts  what  scorn  he  can  into  the  word  rot,  and  in  her 
sweetest,  falsest,  baby  voice  the  woman  answers: 

"My  soul  craves  communion  with  the  infinite  and  would 
seek  the  deeper  harmonies.  I  just  love  to  wander  the  wide 
wastes  between  the  worlds  like  I've  been  doing  to-night." 

The  man  grabs  the  book  from  her,  and  finding  her  finger 
in  a  place  far  beyond  the  end  of  the  cut  leaves,  he  looks  at  her, 


NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE       313 

and  sneers  a  profane  sneer  and  passes  up  the  stairs.  She 
stares  after  him  as  he  slowly  mounts,  without  joy  in  his  tread, 
and  she  follows  him  lightly  as  he  goes  to  his  room.  She 
pauses  before  the  closed  door  for  a  lonely  moment  and  then 
sighs  and  goes  her  way.  She  mumbles,  ' '  God  is  good  and  I 
am  God/'  many  times  to  herself,  but  she  lies  down  to  sleep 
wondering  whimperingly  in  a  half-doze  if  Pelleas  and 
Melisande  found  things  so  dreadfully  disillusioning  after  all 
they  suffered  for  love  and  for  each  other.  As  a  footnote  to 
this  picture  may  we  not  ask : 

Is  the  thing  called  love  worth  having  at  the  cost  of  char 
acter?  The  trouble  with  the  poets  is  that  they  take  their 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  pliable  virtue  and  uncertain  recti 
tude,  only  to  the  altar.  One  may  ask  with  some  degree  of 
propriety  if  the  duplicity  they  practiced,  the  lying  they  did 
and  justified  by  the  sacredness  of  their  passion,  the  crimes 
they  committed  and  the  meannesses  they  went  through  to 
attain  their  ends  were  after  all  worth  while.  Also  one  may 
ask  if  the  characters  they  made — or  perhaps  only  revealed, 
were  not  such  as  to  make  them  wholly  miserable  when  they 
began  to  "live  happily  ever  after"?  A  symposium  entitled 
"Is  Love  Really  Worth  It?"  by  such  distinguished  charac 
ters  as  Helen  of  Troy,  Mrs.  Potiphar  arid  Cleopatra,  might 
be  improving  reading,  if  the  ladies  were  capable  of  telling  the 
truth  after  lives  of  dissimulation  and  deceit. 

But  let  us  leave  philosophy  and  look  at  another  picture. 
This  time  we  have  the  Morton  family. 

The  Captain's  feet  are  upon  the  shining  fender.  There 
is  no  fire  in  the  stove.  It  is  May.  But  it  is  the  Captain's 
habit  to  warm  his  feet  there  when  he  is  in  the  house  at  night, 
and  he  never  fails  to  put  them  upon  the  fender  and  go 
through  his  evening  routine.  First  it  is  his  paper;  then  it 
is  his  feet;  then  it  is  his  apple,  and  finally  a  formal  dis 
cussion  of  what  they  will  have  for  breakfast,  with  the  Cap 
tain  always  voting  for  hash,  and  declaring  that  there  are 
potatoes  enough  left  over  and  meat  enough  unused  to  make 
hash  enough  for  a  regiment.  But  before  he  gets  to  the 
hash  question,  the  Captain  this  evening  leads  off  with  this: 

"Curious  thing  about  spring."  The  world  of  education, 
reading  its  examination  papers,  concurs  in  silence.  The 


314  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

worlds  of  fashion  and  of  the  fine  arts  also  assenting,  the 
Captain  goes  011:  "Down  in  South  Harvey  to-day;  kind 
o'  dirty  down  there;  looks  kind  of  smoky  and  tin  cannery, 
and  woe-begone,  like  that  class  of  people  always  looks,  but  'y 
gory,  girls,  it's  just  as  much  spring  down  there  as  it  is  up 
here,  only  more  so!  eh?  I  says  to  Laura,  looking  like  a  full 
bloom  peach  tree  herself  in  her  kindergarten,  says  I,  'Laura, 
it's  terrible  pretty  down  here  when  you  get  under  the  smoke 
and  the  dirt.  Every  one  just  a  levin','  says  I,  'and  going 
galloping  into  life  kind  of  regardless.  There's  Nate  and 
Anne,  and  there's  Violet  and  Hogan,  and  there's  a  whole  mess 
of  fresh  married  couples  in  Little  Italy,  and  the  Huns  and 
Belgians  are  all  broke  out  with  the  blamedest  dose  of  love 
y'  ever  see!  And  they's  whole  rafts  of  'em  to  be  married 
before  June!'  Well,  Laura,  she  laughed  and  if  it  wasn't 
like  pouring  spring  itself  out  of  a  jug.  Spring,"  he  mused, 
' '  ain  't  it  curious  about  spring ! ' ' 

Champing  his  apple  the  Captain  gesticulates  slowly  with 
his  open  pocket  knife,  "Love" — he  reflects;  then  backs 
away  from  his  discussion  and  begins  anew:  "Less  take — 
say  Anne  and  Nate,  a  happy  couple — him  a  lean,  eagle-beaked 
New  England  kind  of  a  man;  her — a  little  quick-gaited, 
big-eyed  woman  and  sping!  out  of  the  Providence  of  God- 
dlemighty  comes  a  streak  of  some  kind  of  creepy,  fuzzy 
lightning  and  they're  struck  dumb  and  blind  and  plumb 
crazy — eh  ? ' ' 

He  champs  for  a  time  on  the  apple,  ' '  Eighteen  sixty-one — 
May,  sixty-one — me  a  tidy  looking  young  buck — girl — beau 
tiful  girl  with  reddish  brown  hair  and  bluest  eyes  in  the 
world.  Sping!  comes  the  lightning,  and  melts  us  together 
and  the  whole  universe  goes  pink  and  rose-colored.  No 
sense — neither  of  us — no  more'n  Anne  and  Nate,  just  one 
idea.  I  can't  think  of  nothing  but  her — war  isn't  much; 
shackles  on  four  millions  slaves — no  consequence ;  the  Colonel 
caught  us  kissing  in  his  tent  the  day  I  left  for  the  army; 
union  forever — mere  circumstance  in  the  lives  of  two  crazy 
people — in  a  world  mostly  eyes  and  lips  and  soft  hands  and 
whispers  and  flowers,  eh — and — "  The  Captain  does  not 
finish  his  sentence. 

He  rises,  puts  his  apple  core  on  the  table,  and  says  after 


NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE       315 

a  great  sigh:  "And  so  we  bloomed  and  blossomed  and  come 
to  fruit  and  dried  up  and  blowed  away,  and  here  they  are — 
all  the  rest  of  'em — ready  to  bloom — and  may  God  help  'em 
and  keep  'em."  He  pauses,  "Help  'em  and  keep  'em  and 
when  they  have  dried  up  and  blowed  away — let  'em  re 
member  the  perfume  clean  to  the  end!"  He  turns  away 
from  the  girls,  wipes  his  eyes  with  his  gnarled  fingers,  and 
after  clearing  his  throat  says:  "Well,  girls,  how  about 
hash  for  breakfast — what  say?" 

The  wheels  of  the  Judge's  buggy  grate  upon  the  curbing 
nearby  and  the  Captain  remarks:  "Judge  Tom  gets  in  a 
little  later  every  night  now.  I  heard  him  dump  her  in  at* 
eight,  and  here  it  is  nearly  eleven — pretty  careless, — pretty 
careless;  he  oughtn't  to  be  getting  in  this  late  for  four  or 
five  years  yet — what  say  ? ' '  Public  opinion  again  is  divided. 
Fashion  and  the  fine  arts  hold  that  it  is  Margaret's  fault 
and  that  she  is  growing  to  be  too  much  of  a  poseur;  but 
the  schools,  which  are  the  bulwarks  of  our  liberties,  main 
tain  that  he  is  just  as  bad  as  she.  And  what  is  more  to  the 
point — such  is  the  contention  of  the  eldest  Miss  Morton  of 
the  fourth  grade  in  the  Lincoln  school,  he  has  driven  around 
to  the  school  twice  this  spring  to  take  little  Lila  out  riding, 
and  even  though  her  mother  has  told  the  teachers  to  let  the 
child  go  if  she  cared  to,  the  little  girl  would  not  go  and 
he  was  mean  to  the  principal  and  insolent,  though  Heaven 
knows  it  is  not  the  principal's  fault,  and  if  the  janitor  hadn't 
been  standing  right  there — but  it  really  makes  little  differ 
ence  what  would  have  happened;  for  the  janitor  in  every 
school  building,  as  every  one  knows,  is  a  fierce  and  awesome 
creature  who  keeps  more  dreadful  things  from  happening 
that  never  would  have  happened  than  any  other  single  agency 
in  the  world. 

The  point  which  the  eldest  Miss  Morton  was  accenting 
was  this,  that  he  should  have  thought  of  Lila  before  he  got 
his  divorce. 

Now  the  worlds  of  fashion  and  the  fine  arts  and  the 
schools  themselves,  bulwarks  that  they  are,  do  not  realize 
how  keenly  a  proud  man's  heart  must  be  touched  if  day  by 
day  he  meets  the  little  girl  upon  the  street,  sees  her  growing 
out  of  babyhood  into  childhood,  a  sweet,  bright,  lovable 


316  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

child,  and  he  yearns  for  something  sincere,  something  that 
has  no  poses,  something  that  will  love  him  for  himself.  So  he 
swallows  a  lump  of  pride  as  large  as  his  handsome  head, 
and  drives  to  the  school  house  to  see  his  child — and  is  denied. 
In  the  Captain's  household  they  do  not  know  what  that 
means.  For  in  the  Captain's  household  which  includes  a 
six  room  house — not  counting  the  new  white  painted  bath 
room,  the  joint  product  of  the  toil  of  the  handsome  Miss 
Morton  and  the  eldest  Miss  Morton,  and  not  counting  the 
basket  for  the  kitten  christened  Epaminondas,  and  main 
tained  by  the  youngest  Miss  Morton  over  family  protests — 
in  the  Captain's  household  there  is  peace  and  joy,  if  one  ex- 
cepts  the  numbing  fear  of  a  "step"  that  sometimes  prostrates 
the  eldest  Miss  Morton  and  her  handsome  sister ;  a  fear  that 
shelters  their  father  against  the  wily  designs  of  their  sex 
upon  a  meek  and  defenseless  and  rather  obliging  gentleman. 
So  they  cannot  put  themselves  in  the  place  of  the  rich  and 
powerful  neighbors  next  door.  The  Mortons  hear  the  thorns 
crackling  under  the  pot,  but  they  cannot  appreciate  the 
heat. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  last  picture. 

It  is  still  an  evening  in  May! 

"Well,  how  is  the  missionary  to  South  Harvey,"  chirrups 
the  Doctor  as  he  mounts  the  steps,  and  sees  his  daughter, 
waiting  for  him  on  the  veranda.  She  looks  cool  and  fresh 
and  beautiful.  Her  eyes  and  her  skin  glow  with  health  and 
her  face  beams  upon  him  out  of  a  soul  at  peace. 

"She's  all  right,"  returns  the  daughter,  smiling.  "How's 
the  khedive  of  Greeley  county?" 

As  the  Doctor  mounts  the  steps  she  continues :  "Sit  down, 
father — I've  something  on  my  mind."  To  her  father's 
inquiring  face  she  replied,  "It's  Lila.  Her  father  has  been 
after  her  again.  She  just  came  home  crying  as  though  her 
little  heart  would  break.  It's  so  pitiful — she  loves  him;  that 
is  left  over  from  her  babyhood ;  but  she  is  learning  someway 
— perhaps  from  the  children,  perhaps  from  life — what  he  has 
done — and  when  he  tries  to  attract  her — she  shrinks  away 
from  him." 

"And  he  knows  why — he  knows  why,  Laura."  The  Doc 
tor  taps  the  floor  softly  with  his  cane.  "It  isn't  all  gone 


NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE       317 

— Tom's  heart,  I  mean.  Somewhere  deep  in  his  conscious 
ness  he  is  hungering  for  affection — for  respect — for  under 
standing.  You  haven't  seen  Tom's  eyes  recently?"  The 
daughter  makes  no  reply.  "I  have,"  he  continues. 
''They're  burned  out — kind  of  glassy — scummed  over  with 
the  searing  of  the  hell  he  carries  in  his  heart — like  the  girls' 
eyes  down  in  the  Row.  For  he  is  dying  at  the  heart — burn 
ing  out  with  everything  he  has  asked  for  in  his  hands,  yet 
turning  to  Lila ! ' ' 

" Father,"  she  says  with  her  eyes  brimming,  ''I'm  not 
angry  with  Tom — only  sorry.  He  hasn't  hurt  me — much — 
when  it's  all  figured  out.  I  still  have  my  faith — my  faith  in 
folks — and  in  God!  Really  to  take  away  one's  faith  is  the 
only  wrong  one  can  do  to  another!" 

The  father  says,  "The  chief  wrong  he  did  you  was  when 
he  married  you.  It  was  nobody's  fault ;  I  might  have  stopped 
it — but  no  man  can  be  sure  of  those  things.  It  was  just 
one  of  the  inevitable  mistakes  of  youth,  my  dear,  that  come 
into  our  lives,  one  way  or  another.  They  fall  upon  the 
just  and  the  unjust — without  any  reference  to  deserts." 

She  nods  her  assent  and  they  sit  listening  to  the  sounds 
of  the  closing  day — to  the  vesper  bell  in  the  Valley,  to  the 
hum  of  the  trolley  bringing  its  homecomers  up  from  the 
town ;  to  the  drone  of  the  five  o  'clock  whistles  in  South 
Harvey,  to  the  rattle  of  homebound  buggies.  Twice  the 
daughter  starts  to  speak.  The  second  time  she  stops  the 
Doctor  pipes  up,  "Let  it  come — out  with  it — tell  your  daddy 
if  anything  is  on  your  mind."  She  smiles  up  into  his  mobile 
face,  to  find  only  sympathy  there.  So  she  speaks,  but  she 
speaks  hesitatingly. 

"I  believe  that  I  am  going  to  be  happy — really  and  truly 
happy!"  She  does  not  smile  but  looks  seriously  at  her  fa 
ther  as  she  presses  his  hand  and  pats  it.  "I  am  finding  my 
place — doing  my  work — creating  something — not  the  home 
that  I  once  hoped  for — not  the  home  that  I  would  have  now, 
but  it  is  something  good  and  worth  while.  It  is  self  respect 
in  me  and  self  respect  in  those  wives  and. mothers  and  chil 
dren  in  South  Harvey.  All  over  the  place  I  find  its  roots — 
the  shrivelled  parching  roots  of  self-respect,  and  the  aspira 
tion  that  grows  with  self  respect.  Sometimes  I  see  it  in  a  ger- 


318  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

anium  flowering  in  a  tomato  can,  set  in  a  window ;  oftentimes 
in  a  cheap  lace  curtain ;  occasionally  in  a  struggling,  stunted 
yellow  rose  bush  in  the  hard-beaten  earth  of  a  dooryard;  or 
in  a  second  hand  whee/y  cabinet  organ  in  some  front  bed 
room — in  a  thousand  little  signs  of  aspiration,  I  find  America 
asserting  itself  among  these  poor  people,  and  as  I  cherish 
these  things  I  find  happiness  asserting  itself  in  my  life. 
So  it's  my  job,  my  consecrated  job  in  this  earth — to  water 
the  geranium,  to  prune  the  rose,  to  mulch  the  roots  of  self- 
respect  among  these  people,  and  I  am  happy,  father,  happier 
every  day  that  I  walk  that  way." 

She  looks  wistfully  into  her  father's  face.  "Father,  you 
won't  quite  understand  me  when  I  tell  you  that  the  tomato 
cans  with  their  geraniums  behind  those  gray  lace  curtains, 
that  make  Harvey  people  smile,  are  really  not  tomato  cans 
at  all.  They  are  social  dynamite  bombs  that  one  day  will 
blow  into  splinters  and  rubbish  the  injustices,  the  cruel  in 
justices  of  life  that  the  poor  suffer  at  the  hands  of  their  ex 
ploiters.  The  geranium  is  the  flower,  the  spring  flower  of  the 
divine  discontent,  which  some  day  shall  bear  great  and  won 
derful  fruit." 

"Rather  a  swift  pace  you're  setting  for  a  fat  man,  Laura," 
pipes  the  Doctor,  adding  earnestly:  "There  you  go  talking 
like  Grant  Adams!  Don't  let  Grant  Adams  fool  you,  child: 
the  end  of  the  world  isn't  here.  Grant's  a  good  boy,  Laura, 
and  I  like  him;  but  he's  getting  a  kind  of  Millerite  notion 
that  we're  about  to  put  on  white  robes  and  go  straight  up 
to  glory,  politically  and  socially  and  every  which  way,  in  a 
few  years,  and  there's  nothing  to  it.  Grant's  a  good  son,  and 
a  good  brother,  and  a  good  friend  and  neighbor,  but" — the 
Doctor  pounds  his  chair  arm  vehemently,  "there  are  bats, 
my  dear,  bats  in  his  belfry  just  the  same.  Don't  get  ex 
cited  when  you  see  Grant  mount  his  haystack  to  jump  into 
the  crack  o'  doom  for  the  established  order!" 

The  daughter  smiles  at  him,  but  she  answers : 

"Perhaps  Grant  is  touched — touched  with  the  mad  im 
patience  of  God's  fools,  father.  I  don't  always  follow  Grant. 
He  goes  his  way  and  I  go  mine.  But  I  am  sure  of  this,  that 
the  thing  which  will  really  start  South  Harvey,  and  all  the 
South  Harveys  in  the  world  out  of  their  dirt  and  misery,  and 


NOT  A  CHAPTER  BUT  AN  INTERLUDE       319 

vice,  is  not  our  dreams  for  them,  but  their  dreams  for  them 
selves.  They  must  see  the  vision.  They  must  aspire.  They 
must  feel  the  impulse  to  sacrifice  greatly,  to  consecrate  them 
selves  deeply,  to  give  and  give  and  give  of  themselves  that 
their  children  may  know  better  things.  And  it  is  my  work 
to  arouse  their  dreams,  to  inspire  their  visions,  to  make  them 
yearn  for  better  living.  I  am  trying  to  teach  them  to  use 
and  to  love  beautiful  things,  that  they  may  be  restless  among 
ugly  things.  I  think  beauty  only  serves  God  as  the  hand 
maiden  of  discontent!  And,  father,  way  down  deep  in  my 
heart — I  know — I  know  surely  that  I  must  do  this — that  it  is 
my  reason  for  being — now  that  life  has  taken  the  greater  joy 
of  home  from  me.  So,"  she  concludes  solemnly;  il these  peo 
ple  whom  I  love,  they  need  me,  but  father,  God  and  you 
only  know  how  I  need  them.  I  don't  know  about  Grant, — 
I  mean  why  he  is  going  his  solitary  way,  but  perhaps  some 
where  in  his  heart  there  is  a  wound!  Perhaps  all  of  God's 
fools — those  who  live  queer,  unnormal  self-forgetting  lives, 
are  the  broken  and  rejected  pieces  of  life's  masonry  which 
the  builder  is  using  in  his  own  wise  way.  As  for  the  plan, 
it  is  not  ours.  Grant  and  I,  broken  spawl  in  the  rising 
edifice,  we  and  thousands  like  us,  odd  pieces  that  chink  in 
yet  hold  the  strain — we  must  be  content  to  hold  the  load  and 
know  always — always  know  that  after  all  the  wall  is  rising ! 
That  is  enough." 

And  now  we  must  put  aside  the  pictures  and  get  on  with 
the  story. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

GRANT    ADAMS   PREACHING    A    MESSAGE    OF    LOVE   RAISES    THE 
VERY  DEVIL   IN   HARVEY 

THE  most  dramatic  agency  in  life  is  time — time  that 
escapes  the  staged  drama.  The  passing  years,  the 
ceaseless  chiselling  of  continuous  events  upon  a  soul, 
the  reaction  of  a  creed  upon  the  material  routine  of  the  days, 
the  humdrum  living  through  of  life  that  brings  to  it  its  final 
color  and  form — these  things  shape  us  and  guide  us,  make 
us  what  we  are,  and  alas,  the  story  and  the  stage  may  only 
mention  them.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  say  that  as  the  years  of 
work  and  aspiration  passed,  Grant  Adams's  channel  of  life 
grew  narrower.  But  what  does  that  tell  ?  Does  it  tell  of  the 
slow,  daily  sculpturing  upon  his  character  of  the  three  big, 
emotional  episodes  of  his  life?  To  be  a  father  in  boyhood,  a 
father  ashamed,  yet  in  duty  bound  to  love  and  cherish  his 
child ;  to  face  death  in  youth  horribly  and  escape  only  when 
other  men's  courage  save  him;  to  react  upon  that  experience 
in  a  great  spiritual  awakening  that  all  but  touched  madness ; 
and  to  face  unspeakable  pain  and  terror  and  possible  death 
to  justify  one's  fanatic  consecration.  Then  day  by  day 
to  renounce  ambition,  to  feel  no  desire  for  those  deeper 
things  of  the  heart  that  gather  about  a  home  and  the  joys 
of  a  home ;  to  be  atrophied  where  others  are  quick  and  to  be 
supersensitive  and  highstrung  where  others  are  dull ;  these 
are  facts  of  Grant  Adams's  life,  but  the  greater  facts  are 
hidden ;  for  they  pass  under  the  slow  and  inexorably  moving 
current  of  life.  They  are  that  part  of  the  living  through 
of  life  that  may  not  be  staged  nor  told. 

But  something  of  the  living  through  is  marked  on  the 
man.  Here  he  stands  toward  the  close  of  the  century  that 
bore  him — a  tall,  spare,  red-haired,  flint-visaged,  wire-knit 
man,  prematurely  middle-aging  in  late  youth.  Under  his 
high  white  forehead  are  restless  blue  eyes — deep,  clear,  chal- 

320 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  321 

lenging,  combative  blue  eyes,  a  big  nose  protrudes  from 
under  the  eyes  that  marks  a  willful,  uncompromising  crea 
ture  and  a  big  strong  mouth,  not  finely  cut,  but  with  thick, 
hard  lips,  often  chapped,  that  cover  large  irregular  teeth. 
The  face  is  determined  and  dogged — almost  brutal  sometimes 
when  at  rest ;  but  when  a  smile  lights  it,  a  charm  and  graoc 
from  another  being  illumines  the  solemn  countenance  and 
Grant  Adams's  heart  is  revealed.  The  face  is  Puritan — all 
Adams,  dour  New  England  Adams,  and  the  smile  Irish — 
from  the  joyous  life  of  Mary  Sands. 

We  may  only  see  the  face:  here  and  there  on  it  is  the 
mark  of  the  sculptor's  tool:  now  and  then  a  glare  or  a  smile 
reveals  what  deep  creases  and  gashes  the  winds  of  the  passing 
years  have  made  in  the  soul  behind  the  mask.  Here  and 
there,  as  a  rising  strident  voice  in  passionate  exhortation 
lifts,  we  may  hear  the  roar  of  the  narrowing  channel  into 
which  his  life  is  rushed  with  augmented  force  as  he  hurries 
forward  into  his  destiny.  In  that  tumult,  family,  home, 
ambition,  his  very  child  itself  that  was  his  first  deep  well- 
spring  of  love,  are  slipping  from  him  into  the  torrent.  The 
flood  washes  about  him;  his  one  idea  dominates  him.  He  is 
restless  under  it — restless  even  with  the  employment  of  the 
hour.  The  unions,  for  which  he  has  been  working  for  more 
than  half  a  decade,  do  not  satisfy  him.  His  aim  is  perfection 
and  mortality  irritates  him,  but  does  not  discourage  him. 
For  even  vanity  is  slipping  from  him  in  the  erosion  of  the 
waters  rushing  down  their  narrowing  groove. 

But  it  is  only  his  grim  flint  face  we  see;  only  his  high 
strident,  but  often  melodiously  sympathetic  voice  we  hear; 
only  his  wiry,  lank  body  with  its  stump  of  a  right  arm  that 
stands  before  us.  The  minutes — awful  minutes  some  of 
them — the  hours,  painful  wrestling  hours,  the  days,  doubt- 
ridden  days,  and  the  long  monotonous  story  of  the  years,  we 
may  not  know.  For  the  living  through  of  life  still  escapes 
us,  and  only  life 's  tableau  of  the  moment  is  before  us. 

Now  whatever  gloss  of  gayety  Dr.  Nesbit  might  put  upon 
his  opinion  of  Grant  Adams  and  his  work  in  the  world,  it  was 
evident  that  the  Doctor's  opinion  of  that  work  was  not  high. 
But  it  was  comparatively  high ;  for  Harvey's  opinion  of  Grant 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Adams  and  his  work  was  abysmal  in  its  depth.  He  was 
running-  his  life  on  a  different  motor  from  the  motor  which 
moved  Harvey;  the  town  was  moving  after  a  centripetal 
force — every  one  was  for  himself,  and  the  devil  was  entitled 
to  the  hindermost.  Grant  Adams  was  centrifugal;  he  was 
not  considering  himself  particularly  and  was  shamelessly 
taking  heed  of  the  hiudermost  which  was  the  devil 's  by  right. 
And  so  men  said  in  their  hearts,  if  this  man  wins,  there  will 
be  the  devil  to  pay.  For  Grant  was  going  about  the  district 
spreading  discontent.  He  was  calling  attention  to  the  viola 
tion  of  the  laws  in  the  mines;  he  was  calling  attention  to 
the  need  of  other  laws  to  further  protect  the  miners  and 
smelter  men.  He  was  going  about  from  town  to  town  in  the 
Valley  building  up  the  unions  and  urging  the  men  to  demand 
more  wages,  either  in  actual  money  or  in  shorter  hours,  im 
proved  labor  conditions,  and  cheaper  rent  and  better  houses 
from  the  company  which  housed  the  families  of  the  workers. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  ''should  labor  bear  the  burden  of  in 
dustry  and  take  its  leavings  ? ' ' 

"Why,"  he  demanded,  "should  capital  toil  not  nor  spin 
and  be  clothed  as  Solomon  in  his  glory?" 

"Why,"  he  argued,  "should  the  profits  of  toil  be  used  to 
buy  more  tools  for  toil  and  not  more  comforts  for  toil  ? ' ' 

"Why,  why—"  he  challenged  Market  Street,  "is  the  part 
nership  of  society,  not  a  partnership,  but  a  conspiracy  ? ' ' 

Now  Market  Street  had  long  been  wrathful  at  that  per 
sistent  Why. 

But  when  it  became  known  that  John  Dexter  had  in 
vited  Grant  Adams  to  occupy  the  pulpit  of  the  Congrega 
tional  Church  one  Sunday  evening  to  state  his  case,  Market 
Street's  wrath  choked  it.  For  several  years  John  Dexter 
had  been  preaching  sermons  that  made  the  choir  the  only 
possible  theme  of  conversation  between  him  and  Ahab 
Wright.  John  Dexter  had  been  crucified  a  thousand  times 
by  the  sordid  greed  of  man  in  Harvey,  and  had  cried  out 
in  the  wilderness  of  his  pulpit  against  it;  but  his  cries  fell 
upon  deaf  ears,  or  in  dumb  hearts. 

The  invitation  to  Grant  to  speak  at  John  Dexter 's  Sunday 
evening  service  was  more  of  a  challenge  to  Harvey  than 
Harvey  comprehended.  But  even  if  the  town  did  not  en- 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  323 

tirely  realize  the  seriousness  of  the  challenge,  at  least  the 
minister  found  himself  summoned  by  Market  Street  to  a 
meeting  to  discuss  the  wisdom  of  his  invitation.  Whereupon 
John  Dexter  accepted  the  invitation  and,  girding  up  his  loins, 
went  as  a  strong  man  rejoicing  to  run  a  race. 

To  what  a  judgment  seat  they  summoned  John  Dexter! 
First,  up  spake  Commerce.  "Dr.  Dexter,"  said  Commerce 
— Commerce  always  referred  to  John  Dexter  as  Doctor, 
though  no  Doctor  was  he  and  he  knew  it  well,  "Dr.  Dexter, 
we  feel  that  your  encouragement — hum — uhm — well,  your 
patronage  of  this  man  Adams,  in  his — well,  shall  we  say  in 
cendiary — "  a  harsh  word  is  incendiary,  so  Commerce 
stopped  and  touched  its  graying  side  whiskers  reverently  and 
patted  its  immaculate  white  necktie,  and  then  went  on: 
" — well  perhaps  indiscreet  will  do!"  With  Commerce  in 
deed  there  is  no  vast  difference  between  the  indiscrete  and 
the  incendiary.  " — indiscrete  agitation  against  the — well 
— uhm — the  way  we  have  to  conduct  business,  is — is  regret- 
able, — at  least  regretable!" 

"Why?"  interrupted  John  Dexter  sharply,  throwing 
Commerce  sadly  out  of  balance.  But  the  Law,  which  is  the 
palladium  of  our  liberties,  answered  for  Commerce  in  a  slow 
snarling,  "because  he  is  preaching  discontent." 

"But  Mr.  Calvin,"  returned  John  Dexter  quickly,  "if 
any  one  would  come  to  town  preaching  discontent  to  Wright 
&  Perry,  showing  them  how  to  make  more  money,  to  enlarge 
their  profits,  to  rise  among  their  fellow  merchants — would 
you  refuse  to  give  him  audience  in  a  pulpit?"  The  Law 
did  not  deign  to  answer  the  preacher  and  then  Industry  took 
heart  to  say,  pulling  its  military  goatee  vigorously,  and  clear 
ing  its  dear  old  throat  for  a  passage  at  arms :  "  '  Y  gory 
man,  there's  always  been  a  working  class  and  they've  always 
had  to  work  like  sixty  and  get  the  worst  of  it,  I  guess,  and 
they  always  will — what  say  ?  You  can 't  improve  on  the  way 
the  world  is  made.  And  when  she's  made,  she's  made — what 
say  ?  I  tell  you  now,  you  're  wasting  your  time  on  that  class 
of  people." 

The  antagonists  looked  into  each  other's  kindly  eyes.  In 
dustry  triumphing  in  its  logic,  the  minister  hunting  in  his 
heart  for  the  soft  answer  that  would  refute  the  logic  with- 


324  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

out  hurting  its  author.  "Captain,"  he  said,  "there  was 
once  a  wiser  than  we  who  went  about  preaching  a  new  order, 
spreading  discontent  with  injustice,  whose  very  mother  was 
of  the  lowest  industrial  class." 

"Yes — and  you  know  what  happened  to  Him,"  sneered 
the  Courts,  which  are  the  keystones  of  government  in  the 
structure  of  civilization.  "And,"  continued  the  courts,  in 
a  grand  and  superior  voice,  "you  can't  drag  business  into 
religion,  sir.  Religion  is  one  thing  and  I  respect  it," — tit 
ters  from  the  listening  angels,  " — and  business  is  another 
thing,  and  we  think,  sir,  that  you  are  trying  to  mix  the 
insoluble,  and  as  business  men  who  have  our  own  deep  re 
ligious  convictions — "  inaudible  guffaws  from  the  angels, 
" — we  feel  the  sacrilege  of  asking  this  blatherskite  Adams 
to  speak  on  any  subject  in  so  sacred  a  place  as  our  conse 
crated  pulpit,  sir."  Hoarse  hoots  from  the  angels. 

No  soft  benignity  beamed  in  the  preacher's  face  as  he 
turned  to  the  Courts.  "My  pulpit,  Judge,"  answered  John 
Dexter  sternly,  "first  of  all  stands  for  the  gospel  of  Justice 
between  man  and  man.  It  will  afford  sanctuary  for  the  thief 
and  the  Magdalene,  but  only  the  penitent  thief  and  the 
weeping  Magdalene ! ' '  And  John  Dexter  brought  down  a 
resounding  fist  on  the  table  before  him.  "I  believe  that 
the  first  duty  of  religion  is  to  preach  shame  on  the  wicked, 
that  they  may  quit  their  wickedness,  and  if, ' '  John  Dexter 's 
voice  rose  as  he  went  on,  "in  the  light  of  our  widening  in 
telligence  we  see  that  employers  are  organized  wickedly  to 
rob  their  workers  of  justice  in  one  way  or  another,  I  stand 
with  those  who  would  make  the  thief  disgorge  for  his  own 
soul's  sake,  incidentally,  but  chiefly  that  justice  may  come 
into  an  evil  world  and  men  may  not  mock  the  mercy  and 
goodness  of  God  by  pointing  at  the  evil  men  do  unrebuked  in 
His  name,  and  under  His  servants'  noses.  My  pulpit  is  a  free 
pulpit,  sir.  When  it  is  not  that,  I  shall  leave  it.  And  even 
though  I  do  not  agree  sometimes  with  a  man's  message,  so 
long  as  my  pulpit  is  free,  any  man  who  desires  to  cry  stop 
thief,  in  the  darkness  of  this  world,  may  lift  his  voice  there, 
and  no  man  shall  say  him  nay!  Have  you  gentlemen  any 
thing  further  to  offer?" 

Commerce  ceased  rubbing  its  hands.     Its  alter  ego,  Busi- 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  325 

ness,  was  obviously  getting  ready  to  say  something,  but  was 
only  whistling  for  the  station,  and  the  crowd  knew  it  would 
be  a  minute  before  his  stuttering  speech  should  arrive.  Pa 
triotism  was  leaning  forward  with  its  hands  back  of  its  ears, 
smiling  pleasantly  at  what  he  did  not  understand,  and  In 
dustry,  who  saw  the  strings  in  which  his  world  was  wrapped 
up  for  delivery,  cut,  and  the  world  sprawled  in  confusion 
before  him  by  the  preacher's  defiance,  was  pulling  his  military 
goatee  solemnly  when  Science  toddled  in,  white-clad,  pink- 
faced,  smoking  his  short  pipe  and  clicking  his  cane  rather 
more  snappily  than  usual.  He  saw  that  he  had  punctuated 
an  embarrassed  situation.  Only  Religion  and  Patriotism 
were  smiling.  Science  brought  his  cane  down  with  a  whack 
and  piped  out: 

"So  you  are  going  to  muzzle  John  Dexter,  are  you — you 
witch-burning  old  pharisees.  I  heard  of  your  meeting,  and 
I  just  thought  I  'd  come  around  to  the  bonfire !  What  are  you 
trying  to  do  here,  anyway?" 

At  last  Business  which  had  been  whistling  for  the  station 
was  ready  to  pull  in;  so  it  unloaded  itself  thus:  "We  are 
p-protesting,  Doc,  at  th-th-th-th  m-m-m-man  Adams — this 
1-1-labor  sk-sk-skate  and  s-s-socialist  occupying  J-J-John  Dex 
ter 's  p-pulp-p-pit!" 

Science  looked  at  Business  a  grave  moment,  then  burst 
out,  "What  are  you  all  afraid  of!  Here  you  are,  a  lot  of 
grown  men  with  fat  bank  accounts  sitting  around  in  a  blue 
funk  because  Grant  Adams  does  a  little  more  or  less  objec 
tionable  talking.  I  don't  agree  with  Grant  much  more  than 
you  do.  But  you're  a  lot  of  old  hens,  cackling  around  here 
because  Grant  Adams  invades  the  roost  to  air  his  views.  Let 
him  talk.  Let  'em  all  talk.  Talk  is  cheap;  otherwise  we 
wouldn't  have  free  speech."  He  grinned  cynically  as  he 
asked,  "Haven't  you  any  faith  in  the  Constitution  of  the 
fathers?  They  were  smart  enough  to  know  that  free  speech 
was  a  safety  valve ;  let  'em  blow  off.  Then  go  down  and 
organize  and  vote  'em  afterwards  according  to  the  dictates 
of  your  own  conscience.  Politics  is  the  antidote  for  free 
speech!"  The  Doctor  glared  at  the  Courts,  smiled  amiably 
at  Business  and  winked  conspicuously  at  Religion.  Religion 
blushed  at  the  blasphemy  and  as  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 


326  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

further  before  the  house  the  Doctor  and  John  Dexter  left  the 
room. 

But  the  honest  indignation  of  Market  Street  that  an  agi 
tator  should  appear  in  a  pulpit — that  an  agitator  for  any 
thing,  should  appear  in  any  pulpit — waxed  strong.  For  it 
was  assumed  that  religion  had  nothing  to  do  with  social 
conduct;  religion  was  solely  a  matter  of  individual  salva 
tion.  Religion  was  a  matter  concerned  entirely  with  getting 
to  heaven  oneself,  and  not  at  all  a  matter  of  getting  others 
to  heaven  except  as  they  took  the  narrow  and  individual 
path.  The  idea  that  environment  affects  character  and  that 
society  through  politics  and  social  and  economic  institutions 
may  change  a  man 's  environments  and  thus  affect  the  charac 
ters  and  the  chances  for  Heaven  of  whole  sections  of  the  pop 
ulation,  was  an  idea  which  had  not  been  absorbed  by  Market 
Street  in  Harvey.  So  Market  Street  raged. 

That  evening  when  Grant  Adams  returned  from  work  he 
received  two  significant  notes.  One  was  from  John  Dexter 
and  ran: 

"Dear  Grant:  Fearing  that  you  may  hear  of  the  com 
ment  my  invitation  to  you  to  speak  in  my  pulpit  is  causing 
and  fearing  that  you  may  either  decide  at  the  last  minute 
not  to  come  or  that  you  will  modify  your  remarks  out  of 
consideration  for  me,  I  write  to  say  that  while  of  course  I 
may  not  agree  with  everything  you  advocate,  yet  my  pulpit 
is  a  free  pulpit  and  I  cannot  consent  that  you  restrict  its 
freedom  in  saying  your  full  say  as  a  man,  any  more  than  I 
could  consent  to  have  my  own  freedom  restricted.  Yours  in 
the  faith^J.  D." 

The  other  note  ran:  "Father  says  to  tell  you  to  tone  it 
down.  I  have  delivered  his  message.  I  say  here  is  your 
chance  to  get  the  truth  where  it  is  most  needed,  and  even 
if  for  the  most  part  it  falls  on  stony  ground — you  still  must 
sow  it.— L.  N.  VD." 

Sunday  evening  saw  a  large  congregation  in  the  pews  of 
the  Rev.  John  Dexter 's  church.  In  the  front  and  middle 
portion  of  the  church  were  the  dwellers  on  the  Hill,  those 
whose  lines  fell  in  pleasant  places.  They  were  the  "Haves" 
of  the  town, — conspicuous  and  highly  respectable  with  rustle 
of  silks  and  flutter  of  ribbons. 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  327 

And  back  of  these  sat  a  score  of  men  and  women  from 
South  Harvey,  the  "Have-nots/'  the  dwellers  in  the  dreary 
valley.  There  was  Denny  Hogan,  late  of  the  mines,  but  now 
of  the  smelter — with  his  curly  hair  plastered  over  his  fore 
head,  and  with  his  wife,  she  that  was  Violet  Mauling  holding 
a  two-year-old  baby  with  sweaty,  curly  red  hair  to  her  breast 
asleep ;  there  was  Ira  Dooley,  also  late  of  the  mines,  but  now 
proprietor  of  a  little  game  of  chance  over  the  Hot  Dog  Sa 
loon;  there  was  Pat  McCann,  a  pit  boss  and  proud  of  it, 
with  Mrs.  McCann — looking  her  eyes  out  at  Mrs.  Nesbit's 
hat.  There  was  John  Jones,  in  his  Sunday  best,  and  Evan 
Hughes  and  Tom  Williams,  the  wiry  little  Welsh  miners 
who  had  faced  death  with  Grant  Adams  five  years  before. 
They  were  with  him  that  night  at  the  church  with  all  the 
pride  in  him  that  they  could  have  if  he  were  one  of  the  real 
nobility,  instead  of  a  labor  agitator  with  a  little  more  than 
local  reputation.  And  there  were  Dick  and  his  boy  Mugs 
and  the  silent  Mrs.  Bowman  and  Bennie  her  youngest  and 
Mary  the  next  to  the  youngest.  And  Mrs.  Bowman  in  the 
South  Harvey  colony  was  a  person  of  consequence,  for  she 
nodded  to  the  Nesbits  and  the  Mortons  and  to  Laura  and 
to  Mrs.  Calvin  and  to  all  the  old  settlers  of  Harvey — rather 
conspicuously.  She  had  the  gratification  of  noting  that  South 
Harvey  saw  the  nobility  nod  back.  With  the  South  Harvey 
people  came  Amos  Adams  in  his  rough  gray  clothes  and  rough 
gray  beard.  Jasper  Adams,  in  the  highest  possible  collar, 
and  in  the  gayest  possible  shell-pink  necktie  and  under  the 
extremest  clothes  that  it  might  be  possible  for  the  superin 
tendent  of  a  Sunday  School  to  wear,  shared  a  hymnal,  when 
the  congregation  rose  to  sing,  with  the  youngest  Miss  Morton. 
There  were  those  who  thought  the  singing  was  merely  a  duet 
between  young  Mr.  Adams  and  the  youngest  Miss  Morton — 
so  much  feeling  did  they  put  into  the  music.  Mr.  Broth erton 
was  so  impressed,  that  he  marked  young  Adams  for  a  tryout 
at  the  next  funeral  where  there  was  a  bass  voice  needed, 
making  the  mental  reservation  that  no  one  needed  to  look 
at  the  pimples  of  a  boy  who  could  sing  like  that. 

When  the  congregation  sat  down  after  the  first  hymn  John 
Dexter  formally  presented  Grant  Adams  to  the  congregation. 
The  young  man  rose,  walked  to  the  chancel  rail  and  stood  for 


328  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

a  moment  facing  his  audience  without  speaking.  The  con 
gregation  saw  a  tall,  strong  featured,  uncouth  man  with  large 
nose  and  a  big  mouth — clearly  masculine  and  not  finely 
chiselled.  In  these  features  there  was  something  almost 
coarse  and  earthy ;  but  in  the  man 's  eyes  and  forehead,  there 
lurked  the  haunting,  fleeting  shadow  of  the  eternal  feminine 
in  his  soul.  His  eyes  were  deep  and  blue  and  tender,  and 
in  repose  always  seemed  about  to  smile,  while  his  forehead, 
high  and  broad,  topped  by  a  shock  of  red  hair,  gave  him  a 
kind  of  intellectual  charity  that  made  his  whole  countenance 
shine  with  kindness.  Yet  his  clothes  belied  the  promise  of 
his  brow.  They  were  ill-fitting,  with  an  air  of  Sunday-best- 
ness  that  gave  him  an  incongruous  scarecrow  effect.  It  was 
easy  to  see  why  Market  Street  was  beginning  to  call  him  that 
"Mad  Adams."  As  he  lifted  his  glance  from  the  floor,  his 
eyes  met  Laura  Van  Dorn's,  then  flitted  away  quickly,  and 
the  smile  she  should  have  had  for  her  own,  he  gave  to  his 
audience.  He  began  speaking  with  his  arms  behind  him 
to  hide  the  crippled  arm  which  was  tipped  with  a  gloved 
iron  claw.  His  voice  was  low  and  gentle,  yet  his  hearers 
felt  its  strength  in  reserve. 

"I  suppose,"  he  began  slowly,  "every  man  has  his  job 
in  the  world,  and  I  presume  my  job  seems  rather  an  unnec 
essary  one  to  some  of  my  friends,  and  I  can  hardlj  blame 
them.  For  the  assumption  of  superiority  that  it  may  seem 
to  require  upon  the  whole  must  be  distasteful  to  them.  For 
as  a  professional  apostle  of  discontent,  urging  men  to  cease 
the  worship  of  things  as  they  are,  I  am  taking  on  myself  a 
grave  burden — that  of  leading  those  who  come  with  me,  into 
something  better.  In  the  end  perhaps,  you  will  not  be  proud 
of  me.  For  my  vision  may  be  a  delusion.  Time  may  leave 
me  naked  to  the  cold  truth  of  life,  and  I  may  awaken  from 
my  dreaming  to  reality.  That  is  possible.  But  now  I  see 
my  course;  now  I  feel  the  deep  call  of  a  duty  I  cannot  re 
sist."  He  was  speaking  softly  and  in  hardly  more  than  a 
conversational  tone,  with  his  hand  at  his  side  and  his  gloved 
claw  behind  him.  He  lifted  his  hand  and  spoke  in  a  deeper 
tone. 

"I  have  come  to  you — to  those  of  you  who  lead  sheltered 
lives  of  comfort,  amid  work  and  scenes  you  love,  to  tell  you 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  329 

of  your  neighbors;  to  call  to  you  in  their  name,  and  in  the 
name  of  our  common  God  for  help.  I  have  come  from  the 
poor — to  tell  you  of  their  sorrows,  to  beg  of  you  to  come  over 
into  Macedonia  and  help  us ;  for  without  you  we  are  helpless. 
True — God  knows  how  true — the  poor  outnumber  you  by 
ten  to  one.  True,  they  have  the  power  within  them  to  rise, 
but  their  strength  is  as  water  in  their  hands.  They  need 
you.  They  need  your  neighborly  love." 

As  he  spoke  something  within  him,  some  power  of  his 
voice  or  of  his  presence  played  across  the  congregation  like  a 
wind.  The  wind  which  at  first  touched  a  few  who  bent  for 
ward  to  hear  him,  was  moving  every  one.  Faces  gradually 
set  in  attention.  He  went  on : 

"How  wonderful  is  this  spirit  of  life  that  has  come  roll 
ing  in  through  the  eons,  rolling  in  from  some  vast  illimitable 
sea  of  life  that  we  call  God.  For  ages  and  ages  on  this 
planet  life  could  only  give  to  new  life  the  power  to  feed 
and  propagate,  could  only  pass  on  to  new  life  the  heritage 
of  instinct ;  then  another  impulse  of  the  outer  sea  washed  in 
and  there  came  a  day  when  life  could  imitate,  could  learn 
a  little,  could  pass  on  to  new  life  some  slight  power  of  growth. 
And  then  came  welling  in  from  the  unknown  bourne  another 
wave,  and  lo !  life  could  reason,  and  God  heard  men  whisper, 
Father,  and  deep  called  unto  deep.  Since  then  through  the 
long  centuries,  through  the  gray  ages,  life  slowly  has  been 
rising,  slowly  coming  in  from  the  hidden  sea  that  laves  the 
world.  Millions  and  millions  of  men  are  doomed  to  know 
nothing  of  this  life  that  gives  us  joy;  millions  are  held 
bound  in  a  social  inheritance  that  keeps  them  struggling  for 
food,  over  outworn  paths,  mere  creatures  of  primal  instinct, 
whose  Godhood  is  taken  from  them  at  birth ;  by  you — by  you 
who  get  what  you  do  not  earn  from  those  who  earn  what  they 
do  not  get." 

He  turned  to  the  group  near  the  rear  of  the  room,  looked 
at  them  and  continued : 

"The  poor  need  your  neighborly  sacrifice,  and  in  that 
neighborly  love  and  sacrifice  you  will  grow  in  stature  more 
than  they.  What  you  give  you  will  keep ;  what  you  lose  you 
will  gain.  The  brotherhood  you  build  up  will  bless  and 
comfort  you. 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"The  poor,"  he  exclaimed  passionately,  "need  you,  but 
how,  before  God  you  need  them!  For  only  a  loving  under 
standing  of  your  neighbors'  lives  will  soften  your  calloused 
hearts.  Long  benumbing  hours  of  grimy  work,  sordid 
homes  amid  daily  and  hourly  scenes  of  filth  and  shame!" 
He  leaned  forward  and  cried:  "Listen  to  me,  Ahab 
Wright,"  and  he  thrust  forward  his  iron  claw  toward  the 
merchant  while  the  congregation  gasped,  "what  if  you  had 
to  strip  naked  and  bathe  in  a  one-roomed  hut  before  your 
family  every  night  when  you  came  home,  dirty  and  coal- 
stained  from  your  day 's  work !  the  beggar  and  the  harlot  and 
the  thief  nearby."  He  moved  his  accusing  claw  and  the 
startled  eyes  of  the  crowd  followed  it  as  it  pointed  to  Daniel 
Sands  and  Grant  exclaimed:  "Listen,  Uncle  Dan  Sands, 
how  would  you  like  to  have  your  daughter  see  the  things  the 
children  see  who  live  in  your  tenements  next  to  the  Burned 
District,  which  is  your  property  also !  Poisoned  food,  cheap, 
poisoned  air,  cheap,  poisoned  thoughts — all  food  and  air  and 
ideas,  the  cast-off  refuse  of  your  daily  lives  who  live  in  these 
sheltered  homes.  You  have  a  splendid  sewer  system  up  here; 
but  it  flows  into  South  Harvey  and  the  Valley  towns,  a  great 
open  ravine,  because  you  people  sitting  here  who  own  the 
property  down  there  won't  tax  yourselves  to  enclose  those 
sewers  that  poison  us!"  A  faint — rather  dazed  smile  ran 
over  the  congregation  like  a  wraith  of  smoke.  He  felt  that 
the  smoke  proved  that  he  had  struck  fire.  He  went  on: 
"Love,  great  aspiring  love  of  fathers  and  mothers  and  sisters 
and  brothers,  love  stifled  by  fell  circumstance,  by  cruel 
events,  and  love  that  winces  in  agony  at  seeing  children  and 
father  and  brother  go  down  in  the  muck  all  around  them — 
that  is  the  heritage  of  poverty. 

"Hear  me,  Kyle  Perry  and  John  Kollander.  I  know  you 
think  poverty  is  the  social  punishment  of  the  unfit.  But  I 
tell  you  poverty  is  not  the  punishment  of  the  weak.  Pov 
erty  is  a  social  condition  to  which  millions  are  doomed  and 
from  which  only  hundreds  escape  when  the  doom  of  birth 
is  sealed.  What  has  Ahab  Wright  given  to  Harvey  more 
than  James  McPherson,  who  discovered  coal  here?  What 
has  Daniel  Sands  done  for  Harvey  more  than  Tom  Wil 
liams,  who  has  spent  his  life  at  hard  work  mining  coal?  Is 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  331 

not  his  coal  as  valuable  as  Uncle  Daniel's  interest?  Friends 
—think  of  these  things!" 

The  wraith  of  smoke  that  had  appeared  when  Grant  first 
began  speaking  personally  to  the  men  of  Harvey,  in  a  min 
ute  had  grown  to  a  surer  evidence  of  fire.  The  smiling 
ceased.  Angry  looks  began  flashing  over  the  faces  before 
Grant,  like  darts  of  flame.  And  after  these  looks  came  a 
great  black  cloud  of  wrath  that  was  as  perceptible  as  a  gust 
of  smoke.  He  felt  that  soon  the  fire  would  burst  forth. 
But  he  hurried  on  with  his  message :  "Poverty  is  not  the  so 
cial  punishment  of  the  weak,  I  repeat  it.  Poverty  is  a  social 
inheritance  of  the  many,  a  condition  which  holds  men  hard 
and  fast — a  condition  that  you  may  change,  you  who  have  so 
much.  All  this  coal  and  oil  and  mineral  have  profited  you 
greatly,  oh,  men  of  Harvey.  You  are  rich,  Daniel  Sands. 
You  are  prosperous,  Ahab  Wright.  You  have  every  com 
fort  around  you  and  yours,  John  Kollander,  and  you,  Joseph 
Calvin,  are  rearing  your  children  in  luxury  compared  with 
Dick  Bowman's  children.  Hasn't  he  worked  as  hard  as  you? 
Here  are  Ira  Dooley  and  Denny  Hogan.  They  started  as 
equals  with  you  up  here  and  have  worked  as  hard  and  have 
lived  average  lives.  Yet  if  their  share  is  a  fair  share  of 
the  earnings  of  this  community,  you  have  an  unfair  share. 
How  did  you  get  it?"  He  leaned  out  over  the  chancel  rail, 
pointed  a  bony,  accusing  finger  at  the  congregation  and 
glared  at  the  eyes  before  him  angrily.  Quickly  he  recovered 
his  poise  but  brought  his  steel  claw  down  on  the  pulpit  beside 
him  with  a  sharp  clash  as  he  cried  again,  "How  did  you  get 
it?" 

Then  it  was  that  the  flame  of  indignation  burst  forth.  It 
came  first  in  a  hiss  and  another  and  a  third — then  a  crackling 
fire  of  hisses  greeted  his  last  sentence.  When  the  hissing 
calmed,  his  voice  rose  slightly.  He  went  on : 

"We  of  the  middle  classes — we  have  risen  above  the  great 
mass  below  us :  we  are  permitted  to  learn — a  little — to  imitate 
and  expand  somewhat.  But  above  us,  thank  God,  is  another 
group  in  the  social  organization.  Here  at  the  top  stand  the 
blessed,  privileged  few  who  are  the  world's  prophets  and 
dreamers  and  seers — they  know  God ;  they  drink  deep  of  the 
rising  tide  of  everlasting  life  that  is  booming  in,  flooding  the 


332  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

world  with  mercy  and  love  and  brotherhood ;  and  what  they 
see  in  one  century — and  die  for  disclosing — we  all  see  in  the 
next  century  arid  fight  to  hold  it  fast!"  He  stood  looking 
at  the  floor,  then  opened  wide  his  glaring  eyes,  a  fanatic's 
mania  blazing  in  them,  lifted  his  arms  and  cried  with  a  great 
voice  like  a  trumpet:  ''You — you — you  who  have  known 
God's  mercy  and  his  goodness  and  his  love — why,  in  the 
dead  Christ's  name  do  you  sit  here  and  let  the  flood  of  life 
be  dammed  away  from  your  brothers,  stealing  the  waters  of 
life  like  thieves  from  your  brethren  by  your  cruel  laws  and 
customs  and  the  chains  of  social  circumstance ! ' ' 

They  tried  to  hiss  again  but  he  hurried  on  as  one  possessed 
of  a  demon:  "A  little  love,  a  little  sacrifice,  a  little  prac 
tical  brotherly  care  from  each  of  you  each  day  would  help. 
We  don't  want  your  alms,  we  want  justice.  Thousands  of 
babies — loved  just  as  yours  are  loved — are  slaughtered  every 
month  through  poisoned  food  that  comes  from  commercial 
greed.  Thousands  of  fathers  and  brothers  over  this  land  are 
killed  every  year  because  it  is  cheaper  to  kill  them  than  to 
protect  them  by  machinery  guarded  and  watched.  Their 
blood  is  upon  you — for  by  your  laws,  by  your  middle  class 
courts  you  could  stop  its  flowing.  Thousands  of  mothers  die 
every  week  from  poor  housing — you  could  stop  that  if  you 
would.  They  are  stopping  it  by  laws  in  other  lands.  Mil 
lions  of  girls  the  world  over  are  led  like  sheep  to  shameful 
lives  because  of  industrial  conditions  that  your  vote  and 
voice  could  change;  and  yet,"  his  voice  lost  its  accusing  tone 
and  he  spoke  gently,  even  tenderly,  "as  babies  they  cuddled 
in  their  mothers'  arms  and  roused  all  the  hope  and  in 
spired  all  the  love  that  a  soft  little  body  may  bring.  Millions 
and  millions  of  mothers  who  clasp  their  children  to  them  in 
hope,  must  see  those  children  go  into  life  to  be  broken  and 
crushed  by  the  weight  from  above." 

As  Grant  was  speaking  he  noticed  that  Morty  Sands  was 
nodding  his  head  off  in  gorgeous  approval.  Then  without 
thinking  how  his  words  might  cut,  he  cried,  "And  look  at 
our  good  friend  Morty  Sands  who  enjoys  every  luxury  and 
is  arrayed  as  the  lilies  of  the  field!  What  does  Morty  give 
to  society  that  he  can  promise  the  girl  who  marries  him,  com 
fort  and  ease  and  all  the  happiness  that  physical  affluence 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  333 

may  bring?  And  then  there  sits  Mugs  Bowman.  What  can 
Mugs  offer  his  girl  except  a  life  of  hard,  grinding  work,  a 
houseful  of  children  and  a  death  perhaps  of  slow  disease? 
Yet  Mugs  must  have  his  houseful  of  children  for  they  must 
all  work  to  support  Morty.  Where  is  the  justice  in  a  society 
organized  like  this? 

"For  Christ's  living  sake,"  cried  the  man  as  his  face 
glowed  in  his  emotion,  "let  life  wash  in  from  its  holy  source 
to  these  our  brothers.  Shame  on  you — you  greedy  ones,  you 
dollar  worshipers — you  dam  the  stream,  you  muddy  the 
waters,  you  poison  the  well  of  life — shame — shame!"  he 
cried  and  then  paused,  gloated  perhaps  in  his  pause,  for  the 
storm  he  saw  gathering  in  the  crowd,  to  break.  His  face  was 
transfigured  by  the  passion  in  his  heart  and  seemed  illumined 
with  wrath. 

"The  flag — the  flag!"  bawled  deaf  John  Kollander,  rising, 
"He  is  desecrating  Old  Glory!" 

Then  fire  met  fire  and  the  conflagration  was  past  control. 
It  raged  over  the  church  noisily. 

"Look-a  here,  young  man,"  called  Joseph  Calvin,  stand 
ing  in  his  seat. 

"The  flag— will  no  one  defend  the  flag!"  bellowed  John 
Kollander,  while  Rhoda,  his  wife,  looked  on  with  amiable 
approval. 

"P-put  him  out,"  stuttered  Kyle  Perry,  and  his  clerks 
and  understrappers  joined  the  clamor. 

"Well,  say,  men,"  cried  George  Brotherton  in  the  confu 
sion  of  hissing  and  groaning,  "can't  you  let  the  man  talk? 
Is  free  speech  dead  in  this  town?"  His  great  voice  silenced 
the  crowd,  and  John  Dexter  was  in  the  pulpit  holding  out 
his  hands.  As  he  spoke  the  congregation  grew  silent,  and 
they  heard  him  say : 

"This  is  a  free  pulpit;  this  man  shall  not  be  disturbed." 
But  Joseph  Calvin  stamped  noisily  out  of  the  church.  John 
Kollander  and  his  wife  marched  out  behind  him  with  mili 
tary  tread  and  Kyle  Perry  and  Ahab  Wright  with  their  fam 
ilies  followed,  amid  a  shuffling  of  feet  and  a  clamor  of  voices. 
The  men  from  South  Harvey  kept  their  places.  There  was 
a  whispering  among  them  and  Grant,  fearing  that  they 
would  start  trouble,  called  to  them  sternly : 


334  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"My  friends  must  respect  this  house.  Let  property  riot 
— poverty  can  wait.  It  has  waited  a  long  time  and  is  used 
to  it." 

When  Market  Street  was  gone,  the  speaker  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice  charged  with  pent-up 
emotion :  ' '  Now  that  we  are  alone,  friends, — now  that  they 
are  gone  whose  hearts  needed  this  message,  let  me  say  just 
this :  God  has  given  you  who  live  beautiful  lives  the  keeping 
of  his  treasure.  Let  us  ask  ourselves  this:  Shall  we  keep 
it  to  share  it  with  our  brethren  in  love,  or  shall  we  guard  it 
against  our  brethren  in  hate?" 

He  walked  back  to  the  rear  of  the  room  and  sat,  with  his 
head  bowed  down,  beside  his  friends,  spent  and  weary  while 
the  services  closed. 

At  the  church  door  Laura  Van  Dorn  saw  the  despair  that 
was  somewhat  a  physical  reaction  from  weariness.  So  she 
cut  her  way  through  the  group  and  went  to  him,  taking  his 
arm  and  drawing  him  aside  into  the  home-bound  walk,  as 
quickly  as  she  could.  He  remained  grim  and  spoke  only  in 
answer  to  challenge  or  question  from  Laura.  It  was  plain 
to  her  that  he  felt  that  his  speech  was  a  failure ;  that  he  had 
not  made  himself  understood;  that  he  had  overstated  his 
case.  She  was  not  sure  herself  that  he  had  not  lost  more 
ground  than  he  had  gained  in  the  town.  But  she  wrapped 
him  about  in  a  garment  of  kindness — an  almost  maternal 
tenderness  that  was  balm  to  his  heart.  She  did  not  praise 
his  speech  but  she  let  him  know  that  she  was  proud  of  him, 
that  her  heart  was  in  all  that  he  had  said,  even  if  he  felt 
definitely  that  there  were  places  in  his  adventure  where  her 
head  was  not  ready  to  go.  She  held  no  check  upon  the 
words  that  came  to  her  lips,  for  she  felt,  even  deeper  and 
surer  than  she  felt  her  own  remoteness  from  the  love  which 
her  girlhood  had  known,  that  in  him  it  was  forever  dead.  No 
touch  of  his  hand ;  no  look  of  his  eye,  no  quality  of  his  voice 
had  come  to  her  since  her  childhood,  in  which  she  could  find 
trace  or  suggestion  that  sex  was  alive  in  him.  The  ardor 
that  burned  so  wildly  upon  his  face,  the  fire  in  his  eyes  that 
glowed  when  he  spoke  of  his  work  and  his  problems,  seemed 
to  have  charred  within  him  all  flower  and  beauty  of  ro 
mance.  But  they  left  with  him  a  hunger  for  sympathy.  A 


A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  335 

desire  to  be  mothered  and  a  longing  for  a  deep  and  sweet  un 
derstanding  which  made  Laura  more  and  more  necessary 
to  him  as  he  went  into  his  life 's  pilgrimage.  As  they  reached 
a  corner,  he  left  her  with  her  family  while  he  turned  away 
for  a  night  walk. 

As  he  walked,  he  was  continually  coming  upon  lovers 
passing  or  meeting  him  in  the  night ;  and  Grant  seeing  them 
felt  his  sense  of  isolation  from  life  renewed,  but  was  not 
stirred  to  change  his  course.  For  hours  he  wandered 
through  the  town  and  out  of  it  into  the  prairies,  with  his 
heart  heavy  and  wroth  at  the  iniquities  of  men  which  make 
the  inequities  of  life.  For  his  demon  kept  him  from  sleep. 
If  another  demon,  and  perhaps  a  gentler,  tried  to  whisper 
to  him  that  night  of  another  life  and  a  sweeter,  tried  to  turn 
him  from  his  course  into  the  normal  walks  of  man,  tried 
to  break  his  purpose  and  tempt  him  to  dwell  in  the  comely 
tents  of  Kedar — if  some  gentler  angels  that  would  have  saved 
him  from  a  harsher  fate  had  beckoned  to  him  and  called  him 
that  night,  through  passing  lovers'  arms  and  the  murmur  of 
loving  voices,  his  eyes  were  blind  and  his  ears  were  deaf  and 
his  heart  was  hot  with  another  passion. 

Amos  Adams  was  in  bed  when  Grant  came  into  the  house. 
On  the  table  was  a  litter  of  writing  paper.  Grant  sat  down 
for  a  minute  under  the  lamp.  His  father  in  the  next  room 
stirred,  and  asked : 

"What  kept  you?"  And  then,  "I  nad  a  terrific  time  with 
Mr.  Left  to-night."  The  father  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"But  just  look  there  what  I  got  after  a  long  session." 

On  the  page  were  these  words  written  in  a  little  round,  old- 
fashioned  hand,  some  one's  interminably  repeated  prayer. 
"Angels  guide  him — angels  strengthen  him;  angels  pray  for 
him."  These  words  were  penned  clear  across  the  page  and 
on  the  next  line  and  the  next  and  the  next  to  the  very  bot 
tom  of  the  page,  in  a  weary  monotony,  save  that  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sheet  the  pen  had  literally  run  into  the  paper,  so 
heavily  was  the  hand  of  the  writer  bearing  down!  Under 
that,  written  in  the  fine  hand  used  by  Mr.  Left  was  this : 

"Huxley: — On  earth  I  wrote  that  I  saw  one  angel — 'the 
strong,  calm  angel  playing  for  love.'  Now  I  see  the  forces 
of  good  leading  the  world  forward,  compelling  progress;  all 


336  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

are  personal — just  as  the  Great  All  Encompassing  Force  is 
personal,  just  as  human  consciousness  is  personal.  The  posi 
tive  forces  of  life  are  angels — not  exact — but  the  best  figure. 
So  it  is  true  that  was  written,  ' there  is  more  joy  in  Heaven' 
— and  'the  angels  sang  for  joy.'  This  also  is  only  a  figure — 
but  the  best  I  can  get  through  to  you.  Angels  guide  us. 
angels  strengthen  us,  angels  pray  for  us." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IN  WHICH  JUDGE  VAN  DORN  MAKES  HIS  BRAGS  AND  DR.  NESBIT 
SEES    A    VISION 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  last  year  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century — and  a  fair,  beautiful  day  it  was.  The  sun 
shone  over  Harvey  in  spite  of  the  clouds  from  the  smelter 
in  South  Harvey,  and  in  spite  of  the  clouds  that  were  blown 
by  the  soft,  south  wind  up  the  Wahoo  Valley  from  other 
smelters  and  other  coal  mines,  and  a  score  of  great  smoke 
stacks  in  Foley  and  Magnus  and  Plain  Valley,  where  the 
discovery  of  coal  and  oil  and  gas,  within  the  decade  that 
was  passing,  had  turned  the  Valley  into  a  straggling  town 
almost  twenty  miles  long.  So  high  and  busy  were  the  chim 
neys  that  when  the  south  wind  blew  toward  the  capital  of 
this  industrial  community,  often  the  sun  was  dimmed  in 
Harvey  by  a  haze.  But  on  this  fair  winter's  day  the  air 
was  dry  and  cold  and  even  in  Harvey  shadows  were  black  and 
clear,  and  the  sun's  warmth  had  set  the  redbirds  to  singing 
in  the  brush  and  put  so  much  joy  into  the  world  that  Judge 
Thomas  Van  Dorn  had  ventured  out  with  his  new  automo 
bile — a  chugging,  clattering  wonder  that  set  all  the  horses 
of  Greeley  County  on  their  hind  feet,  making  him  a  person  of 
distinction  in  the  town  far  beyond  his  renown  as  a  judge  and 
an  orator  and  a  person  of  more  than  state-wide  reputation. 
But  the  Judge's  automobile  was  frail  and  prone  to  err — being 
not  altogether  unlike  its  owner  in  that  regard.  Thus  many 
a  time  when  it  chugged  out  of  his  barn  so  proudly,  it  came 
limping  back  behind  a  span  of  mules.  And  so  it  happened 
on  that  bright,  beautiful,  December  day  that  the  Judge  was 
sitting  upon  a  box  in  Captain  Morton's  shop,  while  the 
Captain  at  his  little  forge  was  welding  some  bits  of  metal 
together  and  discoursing  upon  the  virtues  of  his  Household 

337 


338  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Horse,  which  he  was  assembling  in  small  quantities — having 
arranged  with  a  firm  in  South  Chicago  to  cast  the  two  iron 
pieces  that  were  needed. 

"Now,  for  instance,  on  a  clothes  wringer,"  the  Captain 
was  saying:  "It's  a  perfect  wonder  on  a  clothes  wringer: 
I  have  the  agency  of  a  clothes  wringer  that  is  making  agents 
rich  all  over  the  country.  But  women  don't  like  clothes 
wringers ;  why  ?  Because  they  require  such  hard  work.  All 
right — hitch  on  my  Household  Horse,  and  the  power  required 
is  reduced  three-fifths  and  a  day's  wash  may  be  put  on  the 
line  as  easy  as  a  girl  could  play  The  Maiden's  Prayer  on 
a  piano — eh?  Or,  say,  put  it  on  a  churn — same  Horse — 
one's  all  that's  needed  to  a  house.  Or  make  it  an  ice  cream 
freezer  or  a  cradle  or  a  sewing  machine,  or  anything  on 
earth  that  runs  by  a  crank — and  'y  gory,  man,  you  make 
housework  a  joy.  I  sold  Laura  one — traded  her  one  for  les 
sons  for  Ruth,  and  she  says  wash-day  at  the  Doctor's  is  like 
Sunday  now — what  say?  Lila's  so  crazy  about  it  they  can't 
keep  her  out  of  the  basement  while  the  woman  works, — likes 
to  dabble  in  the  water  you  know  like  all  children,  washing 
her  doll  clothes,  what  say?" 

But  the  Judge  said  nothing.  The  Captain  tinkered  with 
the  metal,  and  dipped  it  slowly  in  and  out  of  a  tub  of  dirty 
water  to  temper  it,  arid  as  he  tried  it  in  the  groove  where  it 
belonged  upon  the  automobile  backed  up  to  the  shop,  he 
found  that  it  was  not  exactly  true,  arid  went  to  work  to 
spring  it  back  into  line.  The  Judge  looked  around  the  shop 
— a  barny,  little  place  filled  with  all  sorts  of  wheels  and 
pulleys  and  levers  and  half -finished  inventions  that  wouldn't 
work,  and  that,  even  if  they  would  work,  would  be  of  little 
consequence.  There  was  an  attempt  to  make  a  self-oiler 
for  buggy  wheels,  a  half-finished  contrivance  that  was  sup 
posed  to  keep  cordwood  stacked  in  neat  rows;  an  automatic 
contraption  to  prevent  coffeepots  from  burning;  a  cornsheller 
that  would  all  but  work;  a  molasses  faucet  with  an  alcohol 
burner  which  was  supposed  to  make  the  sirup  flow  faster — • 
but  which  instead  sometimes  blew  up  and  burned  down 
grocery  stores,  and  there  were  steamers  and  churns  and 
household  contrivances  which  the  Captain  had  introduced 
into  the  homes  of  Harvey  in  past  years,  not  of  his  invention, 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  339 

to  be  sure,  but  contrivances  that  had  inspired  his  eloquence, 
and  were  mute  witnesses  to  his  prowess — trophies  of  the 
chase.  Above  the  forge  were  rows  of  his  patent  sprockets, 
all  neatly  wrapped  in  brown  paper,  and  under  this  row  of 
merchandise  was  a  clipping  from  the  Times  describing  the 
Captain's  invention,  and  predicting — at  five  cents  a  line — 
that  it  would  revolutionize  the  theory  of  mechanics  and  soon 
become  a  household  need  all  over  the  world. 

As  the  Judge  looked  idly  at  the  Captain's  treasures  while 
the  Captain  tinkered  with  the  steel,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and 
the  Captain,  peering  through  his  glasses,  remarked: 

''Getting  kind  of  thin  on  top,  Tom — eh?  Doc,  he's  lean 
ing  a  little  hard  on  his  cane.  Joe  Calvin,  he 's  getting  rheu 
matic,  and  you're  getting  thin-haired.  The  Lord  giveth 
and  the  Lord  taketh  away." 

"So  you  believe  the  Lord  runs  things  here  in  Harvey,  do 
you,  Cap?"  asked  the  Judge,  who  was  playing  with  a  bit  of 
wire. 

''Well — I  suppose  if  you  come  right  down  to  it,"  an 
swered  the  Captain,  "a  man's  got  to  have  the  consolation  of 
religion  in  some  shape  or  other  or  he's  going  to  get  mighty 
discouraged — what  say  ? ' ' 

"Why,"  scoffed  the  Judge,  "it's  a  myth— there's  nothing 
to  it.  Look  at  my  wife — I  mean  Margaret — she  changes  re 
ligion  as  often  as  she  changes  dogs.  Since  we've  been  mar 
ried  she's  had  three  religions.  And  what  good  does  it  do 
her?" 

The  Captain,  sighting  down  the  edge  of  the  metal,  shook  his 
head,  and  the  Judge  went  on:  "What  good  does  any  re 
ligion  do?  I've  broken  the  ten  commandments,  every  one 
of  them — and  I  get  on.  No  one  bothers  me,  because  I  keep 
inside  the  general  statutes.  I've  beat  God  at  his  own  game. 
I  tell  you,  Cap,  you  can  do  what  you  please  just  so  you  obey 
the  state  and  federal  laws  and  pay  your  debts.  This  God- 
myth  amuses  me." 

Captain  Morton  did  not  care  to  argue  with  the  Judge.  So 
he  said,  by  way  of  making  conversation  for  a  customer,  and 
neighbor  and  guest: 

"I  hear,  well,  to  be  exact,  George  Brotherton  was  telling 
me  and  the  girls  the  other  night  that  the  Company  is  secretly 


340  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

dropping  out  the  members  of  the  unions  that  Grant  Adams 
has  been  organizing  down  in  South  Harvey." 

"Yes — that  Adams  is  another  one  of  your  canting,  God- 
and-morality  fellows.  Always  watch  that  kind.  I  tell  you, 
Captain,"  barked  the  Judge,  "about  the  only  thing  my 
wife  and  I  have  agreed  on  for  a  year  is  that  this  Adams 
fellow  is  a  sneaking,  pharisaical  hound.  Lord,  how  she 
hates  him!  Sometimes  I  think  women  hate  hard  enough 
to  compete  with  your  God,  who  according  to  the  preachers, 
is  always  slipping  around  getting  even  with  fellows  for 
their  sins.  God  and  women  are  very  much  alike,  anyway," 
sneered  the  Judge.  In  the  silence  that  followed,  both  men 
were  attracted  by  a  noise  behind  them — the  rustling  of  straw. 
They  looked  around  and  saw  the  figure  of  a  little  girl — a 
yellow-haired,  blue-eyed,  shy,  little  girl,  trying  to  slip  out 
of  the  place.  She  had  evidently  been  in  the  loft  gathering 
eggs,  for  her  apron  was  full,  and  she  had  her  foot  on  the  loft 
ladder. 

"Why,  Lila,  child,"  exclaimed  the  Captain,  "I  clean  for 
got  you  being  up  there — did  you  find  any  eggs  ?  Why  didn  't 
you  come  down  long  ago  ? ' ' 

"Come  here,  Lila,"  called  the  Judge.  The  child  stood  by 
the  ladder  hesitatingly,  holding  her  little  apron  corners 
tightly  in  her  teeth  basketing  the  eggs — too  embarrassed  now 
that  she  was  down  the  ladder,  to  use  her  hands. 

"Lila,"  coaxed  the  Judge,  reaching  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  "won't  you  let  Papa  give  you  a  dollar  for  candy  or 
something.  Come  on,  daughter. ' '  He  put  out  his  hands.  She 
shook  her  head.  She  had  to  pass  him  to  get  to  the  door. 
"You  aren't  afraid  of  your  Papa  are  you,  Lila — come — 
here's  a  dollar  for  you — that's  a  good  girl." 

Her  mouth  quivered.  Big  tears  were  dropping  down  her 
cheeks.  The  Captain's  quick  eye  saw  that  something  had 
hurt  her.  He  went  over  to  her,  put  his  arm  about  her,  took 
the  eggs  from  her  apron,  fondled  her  gently  without  speak 
ing.  The  Judge  drew  nearer  "Lila — come — that's  a  good 
girl — here,  take  the  money.  Oh  Lila,  Lila,"  he  cried,  "won't 
you  take  it  for  Papa — won't  you,  my  little  girl?" 

The  child  looked  up  at  him  with  shy  frightened  eyes,  and 
suddenly  she  put  down  her  head  and  ran  past  him.  He  tried 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  341 

to  hold  her — to  put  the  silver  into  her  hand,  but  she  shrank 
away  and  dropped  the  coin  before  him. 

"Shy  child,  Judge — very  shy.  Emma  let  her  gather  the 
eggs  this  morning,  she  loves  to  hunt  eggs,"  chuckled  the  Cap 
tain,  ''and  she  went  to  the  loft  just  before  you  came  in.  I 
clean  forgot  she  hadn't  come  down." 

The  Captain  went  on  with  his  work. 

"1  suppose,  Cap,"  said  Van  Dorn  quietly,  "she  heard  more 
or  less  of  what  I  said. ' '  The  Captain  nodded. 

"How  much  did  she  understand?"  the  Judge  asked. 

1 '  More  ?n  you  'd  think,  Judge — more  'n  you  'd  think.  But, ' ' 
added  Captain  Morton  after  a  pause,  "I  know  the  little  skite 
like  a  top,  Judge — arid  there's  one  thing  about  her :  She's  a 
loyal  little  body.  She  '11  never  tell ;  you  needn  't  be  worrying 
about  that." 

The  Judge  sighed  and  added  sadly :  "It  wasn 't  that,  Cap 
— it  was — '  But  the  Judge  left  his  sentence  in  the  air. 
The  mending  was  done.  The  Judge  paid  the  old  man  and 
gave  him  a  dollar  more  than  he  asked,  and  went  chugging  off 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  while  the  Captain,  thinking  over  what 
the  Judge  had  said,  sighed,  shook  his  head,  and  bending  over 
his  work,  cackled  in  an  undertone,  snatches  of  a  tune  that  told 
of  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day.  He  had  put  together  three 
sprockets  and  was  working  on  the  fourth  when  he  looked  up 
and  saw  his  daughter  Emma  sitting  on  the  box  that  the  Judge 
had  vacated.  The  Captain  put  his  hand  to  his  back  and 
stood  up,  looking  at  his  eldest  daughter  with  loving  pride. 

"Emma,"  he  said  at  length,  "Judge  Tom  says  women 
are  like  God."  He  stood  near  her  and  smoothed  her  hair, 
and  patted  her  cheek  as  he  pressed  her  head  against  his  side. 
"I  guess  he's  right — eh?  Lila  was  in  the  loft,  getting  eggs 
and  she  overheard  a  lot  of  his  fool  talk."  The  daughter 
made  no  reply.  The  Captain  worked  on  and  finally  said: 
"It  kind  of  hit  Tom  hard  to  have  Lila  hear  him;  took  the 
tuck  out  of  him,  eh?" 

Emma  still  waited.  "My  dear,  the  more  I  know  of  women 
the  better  I  think  of  God,  and  the  surer  I  am  of  God,  the 
better  I  think  of  women — what  say?"  He  sat  on  the  box 
beside  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his  hard,  cracked,  grimy 
hand,  "  'Y  gory,  girl,  I  tell  you,  give  me  a  line  on  a  man's  idea 


342  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

of  God  and  I  can  tell  you  to  a  tee  what  he  thinks  of  women 
— eh?"  The  Captain  dropped  the  hand  for  a  moment  and 
looked  out  of  the  door  into  the  alley. 

"Well,  Father,  I  agree  with  you  in  general  about  women 
but  in  particular  I  don't  care  about  Mrs.  Herdicker  and 
I  wish  Martha  had  another  job,  though  I  suppose  it's  better 
than  teaching  school."  The  daughter  sighed.  "Honest, 
father,  sometimes  when  I've  been  on  my  feet  all  day,  and 
the  children  have  been  mean,  and  the  janitor  sticks  his  head 
in  and  grins,  so  I'll  know  the  superintendent  is  in  the 
building  and  get  the  work  off  the  board  that  the  rules 
don't  allow  me  to  put  on,  or  one  of  the  other  girls  sends 
a  note  up  to  watch  for  my  spelling  for  he's  cranky  on 
spelling  to-day,  I  just  think,  'Lordee,  if  I  had  a  job  in  some 
one's  kitchen,  I'd  be  too  happy  to  breathe.'  But  then — " 

"Yes — yes,  child — I  know  it's  hard  work  now — but  'y  gory, 
Emmy,  when  I  get  this  sprocket  introduced  and  going,  I'll 
buy  you  six  superintendents  in  a  brass  cage  and  let  you  feed 
'em  biled  eggs  to  make  'em  sing — eh  ? "  He  smiled  and  patted 
his  daughter's  hair  and  rose  to  go  back  to  work.  The 
girl  plucked  at  his  coat  and  said:  "Now  sit  down,  father, 
I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  hesitated.  "It's  about  Mr. 
Brothertoii.  You  know  he's  been  coming  out  here  for  years 
and  I  thought  he  was  coming  to  see  me,  and  now  Martha 
thinks  he  comes  to  see  her,  and  Martha  always  stays  there 
and  so  does  Ruth,  and  if  he  is  coming  to  see  me — "  she 
stopped.  Her  father  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Why, 
father,"  she  went  on, — "why  not?  I'm  twenty-five,  and 
Martha's  twenty- two  and  even  Ruth  is  seventeen — he  might 
even  be  coining  to  see  Ruth,"  she  added  bitterly. 

"Yes,  or  Epaminondas — the  cat — eh?"  cut  in  the  old  man. 
Then  he  added,  indignantly,  "Well,  how  about  this  singing 
Jasper  Adams — who's  he  coming  to  see?  Or  Amos — he 
comes  around  here  sometimes  Saturday  night  after  G.  A.  R. 
meeting,  with  me — what  say?  Would  you  want  us  all  to 
clear  out  and  leave  you  the  front  room  with  him  ? ' '  demanded 
the  perturbed  Captain. 

Then  the  father  put  his  arm  about  his  child  tenderly: 
"  Twenty -live  years  old — twenty-five  years — why,  girl,  in  my 
time  a  girl  was  an  old  maid  laid  on  the  shelf  at  twenty-five — 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  343 

and  here  you  are,"  he  mused,  "just  thinking  of  your  first 
beau  and  here  I  am  needing1  your  mother  worse  than  I  ever 
did  in  my  life.  Law-see'  girl — how  do  1  know  what  to  do — 
what  say?"  But  he  did  know  enough  to  draw  her  to  him 
and  kiss  her  and  sigh.  "Well — maybe  I  can  do  something 
— maybe — we'll  see."  And  then  she  left  him  and  he  went 
to  his  work.  And  as  he  worked  the  thought  struck  him  sud 
denly  that  if  he  could  put  one  of  his  sprockets  in  the  Judge's 
automobile  where  he  had  seen  a  chain,  that  it  would  save 
power  and  stop  much  of  the  noise.  So  as  he  worked  he 
dreamed  that  his  sprocket  was  adopted  by  the  makers  of  the 
new  machines,  and  that  he  was  rich — exceedingly  rich  and 
that  he  took  the  girls  to  visit  the  Ohio  kin,  and  that  Emma 
had  her  trip  to  the  Grand  Canyon,  that  Martha  went  to  Eu 
rope  and  that  Ruthie  "took  vocal"  of  a  teacher  in  France 
whose  name  he  could  not  pronounce. 

As  he  hammered  away  at  his  bench  he  heard  a  shuffling  at 
the  door  and  looking  up  saw  Dr.  Nesbit  in  the  threshold. 

' '  Come  in,  Doctor ;  sit  down  and  talk, ' '  shrilled  the  Doctor 
before  the  Captain  could  speak,  and  when  the  Doctor  had 
seated  himself  upon  the  box  by  the  workbench,  the  Captain 
managed  to  say :  ' '  Surely — come  right  in,  I  'm  kind  of  lone 
some  anyhow." 

"And  I'm  mad,"  cried  the  Doctor.  "Just  let  me  sit  here 
and  blow  off  a  little  to  my  old  army  friend." 

"Well — well,  Doctor,  it's  queer  to  see  you  hot  under  the 
collar — eh?"  The  Doctor  began  digging  out  his  pipe  and 
filling  it,  without  speaking.  The  Captain  asked:  "What's 
gone  wrong?  Politics  ain't  biling?  what  say?" 

"Well,"  returned  the  Doctor,  "you  know  Laura  works  at 
her  kindergarten  down  there  in  South  Harvey,  and  she  got 
me  to  pass  that  hours-of-service  law  for  the  smelter  men  at 
the  extra  session  last  summer.  Good  law !  Those  men  work 
ing  there  in  the  fumes  shouldn't  work  over  six  hours  a  day — 
it  will  kill  them.  I  managed  by  trading  off  my  hide  and  my 
chances  of  Heaven  to  get  a  law  through,  cutting  them  down 
to  eight  hours  in  smelter  work.  Denny  Hogan,  who  works  on 
the  slag  dump,  is  going  to  die  if  he  has  to  do  it  another  year 
on  a  ten-hour  shift.  He's  been  up  and  down  for  two  years 
now — the  Hogans  live  neighbors  to  Laura's  school  and  I've 


344  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

been  watching  him.  Well,"  and  here  the  Doctor  thumped 
on  the  floor  with  his  cane,  "this  Judge — this  vain,  strutting 
peacock  of  a  Judge,  this  cat-chasing  Judge  that  was  once 
my  son-in-law,  has  gone  and  knocked  the  law  galley  west  so 
far  as  it  affects  the  slag  dump.  I've  just  been  reading  his 
decision,  and  I'm  hot — good  and  hot." 

The  Captain  interrupted : 

"I  saw  Violet  Hogan  and  the  children — dressed  like  prin 
cesses,  walking  out  to-day — past  the  Judge's  house — showing 
it  to  them — what  say  ?  My,  how  old  she  looks,  Doctor ! ' ' 

"Well — the  damned  villain — the  infernal  scoundrel — " 
piped  the  Doctor.  "I  just  been  reading  that  decision.  The 
men  showed  in  their  lawsuit  that  the  month  before  the  law 
took  effect  the  company,  knowing  the  law  had  been  passed, 
went  out  and  sold  their  switch  and  sold  the  slag  dump,  to  a 
fake  railroad  company  that  bought  a  switch  engine  and  two 
or  three  cars,  and  incorporated  as  a  railroad,  and  then — the 
same  people  owning  the  smelter  and  the  railroad,  they  set 
all  the  men  in  the  smelter  that  they  could  working  on  the 
slag  dump,  so  the  men  were  working  for  the  railroad  and 
not  for  the  smelter  company  and  didn't  come  within  the  eight 
hour  law.  And  now  the  Judge  stands  by  that  farce;  he 
says  that  the  men  working  there  under  the  very  chimney  of 
the  smelter  on  the  slag  dump  where  the  fumes  are  worst,  are 
not  subject  to  the  law  because  the  law  says  that  men  working 
for  the  smelters  shall  riot  work  more  than  eight  hours,  and 
these  men  are  working  for  a  cheating,  swindling  subterfuge 
of  a  railroad.  That's  judge-made  law.  That's  the  kind  of 
law  that  makes  anarchists.  Law!"  snorted  the  Doctor, 
"Law! — made  by  judges  who  have  graduated  out  of  the  em 
ploy  of  corporations — law ! — is  just  what  the  Judge  on  the 
bench  dares  to  read  into  the  statute.  I  tell  you,  Cap,  if  the 
doctors  and  engineers  and  preachers  were  as  subservient  to 
greed  and  big  money  as  the  lawyers  are,  we  would  soon  lose 
our  standing.  But  when  a  lawyer  commits  some  flagrant 
malpractice  like  that  of  Tom  Van  Dorn's — the  lawyers  re 
mind  us  that  the  courts  are  sacred  institutions." 

The  Doctor's  pipe  was  out  and  in  filling  it  again,  he  jabbed 
viciously  at  the  bowl  with  his  knife,  and  in  the  meantime  the 
Captain  was  saying : 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  345 

"Well,  I  suppose  he  found  the  body  of  the  decisions  lean 
ing  that  way,  Doc — you  know  Judges  are  bound  by  the  body 
of  the  law." 

"The  body  of  the  law — yes,  damn  'em,  I've  bought  'em  to 
find  the  body  of  the  law  myself." 

The  Doctor  sputtered  along  with  his  pipe  and  cried  out  in 
his  high  treble — "I  never  had  any  more  trouble  buying  a 
court  than  a  Senator.  And  lawyers  have  no  shame  about 
hiring  themselves  to  crooks  and  notorious  lawbreakers.  And 
some  lawyers  hire  themselves  body  and  soul  to  great  corpora 
tions  for  life  and  we  all  know  that  those  corporations  are 
merely  evading  the  laws  and  not  obeying  them ;  and  lawyers 
— at  the  very  top  of  the  profession — brazenly  hire  out  for  life 
to  that  kind  of  business.  What  if  the  top  of  the  medical 
profession  was  composed  of  men  who  devoted  themselves  to 
fighting  the  public  welfare  for  life  !  We  have  that  kind  of 
doctors — but  we  call  them  quacks.  We  don't  allow  'em  in 
our  medical  societies.  We  punish  them  by  ostracism.  But 
the  quack  lawyers  who  devote  themselves  to  skinning  the 
public — they  are  at  the  head  of  the  bar.  They  are  made 
judges.  They  are  promoted  to  supreme  courts.  A  damn 
nice  howdy-do  we're  coming  to  when  the  quacks  run  a  whole 
profession.  And  Tom  Van  Dorn  is  a  quack — a  hair-splitting, 
owl-eyed,  venal  quack — who  doles  out  the  bread  pills  of  in 
justice,  and  the  strychnine  stimulants  of  injustice  and  the 
deadening  laudanum  of  injustice,  and  falls  back  on  the  body 
of  the  decisions  to  uphold  him  in  his  quackery.  Justice  de 
mands  that  he  take  that  fake  corporation,  made  solely  to 
evade  the  law,  and  shake  its  guts  out  and  tell  the  men  who 
put  up  this  job,  that  he'll  put  them  all  in  jail  for  contempt 
of  court  if  they  try  any  such  shenanigan  in  his  jurisdiction 
again.  That  would  be  justice.  This — this  decision — is  hum 
bug  and  every  one  knows  it.  What's  more — it  may  be  mur 
der.  For  men  can't  work  on  that  slag  dump  ten  hours  a 
day  without  losing  their  lives." 

The  captain  tapped  away  at  his  sprocket.  He  had  his  own 
ideas  about  the  sanctity  of  the  courts.  They  were  not  to  be 
overthrown  so  easily.  The  Doctor  snorted:  "Burn  their 
bodies,  and  blear  their  minds,  and  then  wail  about  our  vicious 
lower  classes — I'm  getting  to  be  an  anarchist." 


346  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

He  prodded  his  cane  among  the  debris  on  the  floor  and 
then  he  began  to  twitch  the  loose  skin  of  his  lower  face  and 
smiled.  ''Thank  you,  Cap,"  he  chirped.  "How  good  and 
beautiful  a  thing  it  is  to  blow  off  steam  in  a  barn  to  your 
old  army  friend." 

The  Captain  looked  around  and  smiled  and  the  Doctor 
asked:  ""What  was  that  you  were  saying  about  Violet 
Hogan?" 

"I  said  I  saw  her  to-day  and  she  looked  faded  and  old — 
she's  not  so  much  older  than  my  Emma — eh?" 

"Still,"  said  the  Doctor,  "Violet's  had  a  tough  time — a 
mighty  tough  time;  three  children  in  six  years.  The  last 
one  took  most  of  her  teeth;  young  horse  doctor  gave  her 
some  dope  that  about  killed  her;  she's  done  all  the  cooking, 
washing,  scrubbing  and  made  garden  for  the  family  in  that 
time — up  every  morning  at  five,  seven  days  in  the  week  to 
get  breakfast  for  Dennis — Emma  would  look  broken  if  she'd 
had  that."  The  Doctor  paused.  "Like  her  mother — weak 
— vain — puts  all  of  Denny 's  wages  on  the  children 's  backs — 
Laura  says  Violet  spends  more  on  frills  for  those  kids  than 
we  spend  for  groceries — and  Violet  goes  around  herself  look 
ing  like  the  Devil  before  breakfast. ' '  The  Doctor  rested  his 
chin  on  his  cane.  ' '  Remember  her  mother — Mrs.  Mauling — 
funny  how  it  breeds  that  way.  The  human  critter,  Cap, 
is  a  curious  beast — but  he  does  breed  true — mostly."  The 
Doctor  loafed,  whistling,  around  the  work  shop,  prodding  at 
things  with  his  cane,  and  wound  up  leaning  against  one  end 
of  the  bench. 

"Last  day  of  the  century,"  he  piped,  "makes  a  fellow 
pause  and  study.  I've  seen  fifty- three  years  of  the  old  cen 
tury — seen  the  electric  light,  the  telephone,  the  phonograph, 
the  fast  printing  press,  the  transcontinental  railroad,  the 
steam  thresher,  the  gasoline  engine — and  all  its  wonders 
clear  down  to  Judge  Tom's  devil  wagon.  That's  a  good  deal 
for  one  short  life.  I've  seen  industry  revolutionized — leav 
ing  the  homes  of  the  people,  and  herding  into  the  great  fac 
tories.  I  've  seen  steam  revolutionize  the  daily  habits  of  men, 
and  distort  their  thoughts;  one  man  can't  run  a  steam  en 
gine  ;  it  takes  more  than  one  man  to  own  one.  So  have  I  seen 
capital  rise  in  the  world  until  it  is  greater  than  kings,  greater 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  347 

than  courts,  greater  than  governments — greater  than  God 
himself  as  matters  stand,  Cap — I'm  terribly  afraid  that's 
true." 

The  Doctor  was  serious.  His  high  voice  was  calm,  and 
he  smoked  a  while  in  peace.  ' '  But, ' '  he  added  reflectively — 
' '  Cap,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  more  wonderful  than  all ; 
I've  seen  seven  absolutely  honest  men  elected  this  year  to  the 
State  Senate — I've  sounded  them,  felt  them  out,  had  all 
kinds  of  reports  from  all  kinds  of  people  on  those  seven  men. 
Each  man  thinks  he's  alone,  and  there  are  seven." 

The  Doctor  leaned  over  to  the  Captain  and  said  confiden 
tially,  "Cap — we  meet  next  week.  Listen  here.  I  was 
elected  without  a  dollar  of  the  old  spider's  money.  He 
fought  me  for  that  smelter  law  on  the  quiet.  Now  look  here ; 
you  watch  my  smoke.  I  'm  going  to  organize  those  seven,  and 
make  eight  and  you're  going  to  see  some  fighting." 

* '  You  ain  't  going  to  fight  the  party,  are  you,  Doc  ? ' '  asked 
the  amazed  Captain,  as  though  he  feared  that  the  Doctor 
would  fall  dead  if  he  answered  yes.  But  the  Doctor  grinned 
and  said:  "Maybe — if  it  fights  me." 

"Well,  Doc—"  cried  the  Captain,  "don't  you  think— 

"You  bet  I  think — that's  what's  the  matter.  The  smelter 
lawsuit's  made  me  think.  They  want  to  control  government 
so  they  can  have  a  license  to  murder.  That's  what  it  means. 
Watch  'em  blight  Denny  Hogan  's  lungs  down  on  the  dump ; 
watch  'em  burn  'em  up  and  crush  'em  in  the  mines — by 
evading  the  mining  laws;  watch  'em  slaughter  'em  on  the 
railroads;  murder  is  cheap  in  this  country — if  you  control 
government  and  get  a  slaughter  license. ' ' 

The  Doctor  laughed.  "That's  the  old  century — and  say, 
Cap — I'm  with  the  new.  You  know  old  Browning — he  says: 

"It  makes  me  mad 
To  think  what  men  will  do  an'  I  am  dead." 

The  Doctor  waved  his  cane  furiously,  and  grinned  as  he 
threw  back  his  head,  laughed  silently,  kicked  out  one  leg, 
and  stood  with  one  eye  cocked,  looking  at  the  speechless 
Captain.  ' '  Well,  Cap — speak  up — what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

' '  'Y  gory,  Doc,  you  certainly  do  talk  like  a  Populist — eh  ? ' ' 
was  all  the  Captain  could  reply.  The  Doctor  toddled  to  the 


348  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

door,  and  standing  there  sang  back:  "Well,  Cap — do  you 
think  the  Lord  Almighty  laid  off  all  the  angels  and  quit  work 
on  the  world  when  he  invented  Tom  Van  Dorn's  automobile — 
that  it  is  the  last  new  thing  that  will  ever  be  tried  ? ' ' 

And  with  that,  the  Doctor  went  out  into  the  alley  and 
through  his  alley  gate  into  his  house.  But  the  Captain's 
mind  was  set  going  by  the  Doctor's  parting  words.  He  was 
considering  what  might  follow  the  invention  of  Tom  Van 
Dorn  's  automobile.  There  was  that  chain,  and  there  was  his 
sprocket.  It  would  work — he  knew  it  would  work  and  save 
much  power  and  much  noise.  But  the  sprocket  must  be 
longer,  and  stronger.  Then,  he  thought,  if  the  wire  spokes 
and  the  ball-bearing  and  rubber  tires  of  the  bicycle  had  made 
the  automobile  possible,  and  now  that  they  were  getting  the 
gasoline  engine  of  the  automobile  perfected  so  that  it  would 
generate  such  vast  power  in  such  a  small  space — what  if  they 
could  conserve  and  apply  that  power  through  his  invention — 
what  if  the  gasoline  engine  might  not  through  his  Household 
Horse  some  day  generate  and  use  a  power  that  would  lift  a 
man  off  the  earth?  What  then?  As  he  tapped  the  bolts 
and  turned  the  screws  and  put  his  little  device  together,  he 
dreamed  big  dreams  of  the  future  when  men  should  fly,  and 
the  boundaries  of  nations  would  disappear  and  tariffs  would 
be  impossible.  This  shocked  him,  and  he  tried  to  figure  out 
how  to  prevent  smuggling  by  flying  machines;  but  as  he 
could  not,  he  dreamed  on  about  the  time  when  war  would  be 
abolished  among  civilized  men,  because  of  his  invention. 

So  while  he  was  dreaming  in  matter — forming  the  first 
vague  nebulae  of  coming  events,  the  infinite  intelligence  wash 
ing  around  us  all,  floating  this  earth,  and  holding  the  stars  in 
their  courses,  sent  a  long,  thin  fleck  of  a  wave  into  the  mind 
of  this  man  who  stood  working  and  dreaming  in  the  twilight 
while  the  old  century  was  passing.  And  while  he  saw  his 
vision,  other  minds  in  other  parts  of  the  earth  saw  their 
visions.  Some  of  these  myriad  visions  formed  part  of 'his, 
and  his  formed  part  of  theirs,  and  all  were  part  of  the  great 
vision  that  was  brooding  upon  the  bourne  of  time  and 
space.  And  other  visions,  parts  of  the  great  vision  of  _  the 
Creator,  were  moving  with  quickening  life  in  other  minds 
and  hearts.  The  disturbed  vision  of  justice  that  flashed 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  BRAGS  349 

through  the  Doctor's  mind  was  a  part  of  the  vast  cycle  of 
visions  that  were  hovering  about  this  earth.  It  was  not  his 
alone,  millions  held  part  of  it;  millions  aspired,  they  knew 
not  why,  and  staked  their  lives  upon  their  faith  that  there 
is  a  power  outside  ourselves  that  makes  for  righteousness. 
And  as  the  .waves  of  infinite,  resistless,  all-encompassing  love 
laved  the  world  that  New  Year's  night  that  cast  the  new 
Century  upon  the  strange  shores  of  time,  let  us  hope  that  the 
dreams  of  strong  men  stirred  them  deeply  that  they  might 
move  wisely  upon  that  mysterious  tide  that  is  drawing  hu 
manity  to  its  unknown  goal. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

WHEREIN   VIOLET   HOGAN    TAKES   UP   AN   OLD   TRADE   AND 
MARGARET    VAN   DORN   SEEKS  A   HIGHER   PLANE 


THE  new  Century  brought  to  Harvey  such  plenitude 
that  all  night  and  all  day  the  smelter  fires  painted  the 
sky  up  and  down  the  Wahoo  Valley;  all  night  long 
and  all  day  long  the  miners  worked  in  the  mines,  and  all 
through  the  night  and  the  long  day  the  great  cement  fac 
tory  and  the  glass  factories  belched  forth  their  lurid  fumes. 
The  trolley  cars  went  creaking  and  moaning  around  the 
curves  through  the  mean,  dirty,  squalid,  little  streets  of  the 
mining  and  manufacturing  towns.  They  whined  impa 
tiently  as  they  sailed  across  the  prairie  grass  under  the  be 
fogged  sunshine  between  the  settlements,  but  always  they 
brought  up  with  their  loads  at  Harvey.  So  Harvey  grew  to 
be  a  prosperous  inland  city,  and  the  Palace  Hotel  with  its 
onyx  and  marble  office,  once  the  town's  pride,  found  itself 
with  all  its  striving  but  a  third-class  hostelry,  while  the 
three-story  building  of  the  Traders'  Bank  looked  low  and 
squatty  beside  its  six  and  seven  storied  neighbors.  The  tin 
cornices  of  Market  Street  were  wiped  away,  and  yellow  brick 
and  terra  cotta  and  marble  took  the  place  of  the  old  orna 
ments  of  which  the  young  town  had  been  so  proud.  The 
thread  of  wires  and  pipes  that  made  the  web  of  the  spider 
behind  the  brass  sign,  multiplied  and  the  pipes  and  the  rails 
and  the  cables  that  carried  his  power  grew  taut  and  strong. 
New  people  by  thousands  had  come  into  the  town  and  gradu 
ally  the  big  house,  the  Temple  of  Love  on  Hill  Crest,  that 
had  been  deserted  during  the  first  years  of  its  occupancy, 
filled  up.  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  and  his  handsome  wife 
were  seen  in  the  great  hotels  of  New  York  and  Boston,  and 
in  Europe  more  or  less,  though  the  acquaintances  they  made 
in  Europe  and  in  the  East  were  no  longer  needed  to  fill  their 
home.  But  the  old  settlers  of  Harvey  maintained  their 

350 


AN  OLD  TRADE  351 

siege.  It  was  at  a  Twelfth  Night  festivity  when  young  peo 
ple  from  all  over  the  Valley  and  from  all  over  the  West  were 
masqueing  in  the  great  house,  that  Judge  Van  Dorn,  to  please 
a  pretty  girl  from  Baltimore  whom  the  Van  Dorns  had  met 
in  Italy,  shaved  his  mustache  and  appeared  before  the  guests 
with  a  naked  lip.  The  pursed,  shrunken,  sensuous  lips  of  the 
cruel  mouth  showed  him  so  mercilessly  that  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
could  not  keep  back  a  little  scream  of  horror  the  first  time 
he  stood  before  her  with  his  shaved  lip.  But  she  changed 
her  scream  to  a  baby  giggle,  and  he  did  not  know  how  he  was 
revealed.  So  he  went  about  ever  after,  preening  himself 
that  his  smooth  face  gave  him  youth,  and  strutting  inordi 
nately  because  some  of  the  women  he  knew  told  him  he  looked 
like  a  boy  of  twenty-five — instead  of  a  man  in  his  forties. 
He  was  always  suave,  always  creakingly  debonaire,  always, 
even  in  his  meannesses,  punctilious  and  airy. 

So  the  old  settlers  sometimes  were  fooled  by  his  attitude 
toward  Margaret,  his  wife.  He  bore  toward  her  in  public 
that  shallow  polish  of  attention,  which  puzzled  those  who 
knew  that  they  were  never  together  by  themselves  when  he 
could  help  it,  that  he  spent  his  evenings  at  the  City  Club, 
and  that  often  at  the  theater  they  sat  almost  back  to  back 
unconsciously  during  the  whole  performance.  But  after  the 
curtain  was  down,  the  polite  husband  was  the  soul  of  at 
tendance  upon  the  beautiful  wife — her  coat,  her  opera  glasses, 
her  trappings  of  various  sorts  flew  in  and  out  of  his  eager 
hands  as  though  he  were  a  conjurer  playing  with  them  for  an 
audience.  For  he  was  a  proud  man,  and  she  was  a  vain 
woman,  and  they  were  striving  to  prove  to  a  disapproving 
world  that  the  bargain  they  had  made  was  a  good  one. 

Yet  the  old  settlers  of  Harvey  felt  instinctively  that  the 
price  of  their  Judge's  bargain  was  not  so  trifling  a  matter 
as  at  first  the  happy  couple  had  esteemed  it.  The  older  peo 
ple  saw  the  big  house  glow  with  light  as  the  town  spread  over 
the  hill  and  prosperity  blackened  the  Valley.  The  older 
people  played  their  quiet  games  of  bridge,  by  night,  and  said 
little.  Judge  Van  Dorn  polished  the  periods  of  his  orations, 
kept  himself  like  a  race  horse,  strutted  like  a  gobbler,  showed 
his  naked  mouth,  held  himself  always  tightly  in  hand,  kept 
his  eye  out  for  a  pretty  face,  wherever  it  might  be  found, 


352  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

drank  a  little  too  much  at  night  at  the  City  Club ;  not  much 
too  much  but  a  very  little  too  much — so  much  that  he  needed 
something  to  brighten  his  eyes  in  the  morning. 

But  whatever  the  Judge 's  views  were  on  the  chess  game  of 
the  cosmos,  Margaret,  his  wife,  had  no  desire  to  beat  God 
at  his  own  game.  She  was  a  seeker,  who  always  was  looking 
for  a  new  God.  God  after  God  had  passed  in  weary  review 
before  her.  She  was  always  ready  to  tune  up  with  the  infi 
nite,  and  to  ignore  the  past — a  most  comfortable  thing  to  do 
under  the  circumstances. 

As  she  turned  into  Market  Street  one  February  morning  of 
the  New  Year  in  the  New  Century,  leading  her  dachshund, 
she  was  revolving  a  deep  problem  in  her  head.  She  was 
trying  to  get  enough  faith  to  believe  that  her  complexion 
did  not  need  a  renovation.  She  knew  that  the  skin-thought 
she  kept  holding  was  earth-bound  and  she  had  tried  to  shake 
it,  but  it  wouldn't  shake.  She  had  progressed  far  enough 
in  the  moment's  cult  to  overcome  a  food-thought  when  her 
stomach  hurt  her,  by  playing  a  stiff  game  of  bridge  for  a  little 
stake.  But  the  skin-thought  was  with  her,  and  she  was 
nervous  and  irritable  and  upon  the  verge  of  tears  for  noth 
ing  at  all.  Moreover,  her  dog  kept  pulling  at  his  leash,  so 
altogether  her  cup  was  running  over  and  she  went  into  Mr. 
Brotherton's  store  to  ask  him  to  try  to  find  an  English  trans 
lation  of  a  highly  improper  German  book  with  a  pious  title 
about  which  she  had  heard  from  a  woman  from  Chicago  who 
had  been  visiting  her. 

Now  Mr.  Brotherton  had  felt  the  impulse  of  the  town's 
prosperity  in  his  business.  The  cigar  stand  was  gone.  In 
its  place  was  a  handsome  plain  glass  case  containing  expensive 
books — books  bound  in  vellum,  books  in  hand-tooled  leather, 
books  with  wide,  ragged  margins  of  heavy  linen  paper  around 
deep  black  types  with  illuminated  initials  at  the  chapter 
heads;  books  filled  with  extravagant  illustrations,  books  so 
beautiful  that  Mr.  Brotherton  licked  his  chops  with  joy  when 
he  considered  the  difference  between  the  cost  mark  and  the 
price  mark.  The  Amen  Corner  was  gone — the  legend  that 
had  come  down  from  the  pool  room,  "Better  go  to  bed  lone 
some  than  wake  up  in  debt,"  had  been  carted  to  the  alley. 
While  the  corner  formerly  occupied  by  the  old  walnut  bench 


AN  OLD  TRADE  353 

still  held  a  corner  seat,  it  was  a  corner  seat  with  sharp  angles, 
with  black  stain  upon  it,  and  upholstered  in  rich  red  leather, 
and  red  leather  pillows  lounged  luxuriously  in  the  corners 
of  the  seat ;  a  black,  angular  table  and  a  red,  angular  shade 
over  a  green  angular  lamp  sat  where  the  sawdust  box  had 
been.  True — a  green  angular  smoker's  set  also  was  upon  the 
table — the  only  masculine  appurtenance  in  the  corner;  but 
it  was  clearly  a  sop  thrown  out  to  offended  and  exiled  man 
kind — a  mere  mockery  of  the  solid  comfort  of  the  sawdust 
box,  filled  with  cigar  stubs  and  ashes  that  had  made  the 
corner  a  haven  for  weary  man  for  nearly  a  score  of  years. 
Above  the  black-stained  seat  ran  a  red  dado  and  upon  that 
in  fine  old  English  script,  where  once  the  old  sign  of  the 
Corner  had  been  nailed,  there  ran  this  legend : 

"  'The  sweet  serenity  of  Books'  and  Wallpaper, 
Stationery  and  Office  Supplies." 

For  Mr.  Brotherton's  commercial  spirit  could  not  permit 
him  to  withhold  the  fact  that  he  had  enlarged  his  business  by 
adding  such  household  necessities  as  wall  paper  and  such 
business  necessities  as  stationery  and  office  supplies.  Thus 
the  town  referred  ever  after  to  Mr.  Brotherton's  "Sweet 
serenity  of  Books  and  Wallpaper,"  and  so  it  was  known  of 
men  in  Harvey. 

When  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  entered,  she  was  surprised;  for 
while  she  had  heard  casually  of  the  changes  in  Mr.  Brother- 
ton's  establishment,  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  effulgence 
of  refined  and  suppressed  grandeur  that  greeted  her. 

Mr.  Brotherton,  in  a  three  buttoned  frock  coat,  a  rich  black 
ascot  tie  and  suitable  gray  trousers,  came  forward  to  meet 
her. 

"Ah,  George,"  she  exclaimed  in  her  baby  voice,  "really 
what  a  lit-ry,"  that  also  was  from  her  Chicago  friend,  "what 
a  lit-ry  atmosphere  you  have  given  us." 

Mr.  Brotherton's  smile  pleaded  guilty  for  him.  He  waved 
her  to  a  seat  among  the  red  cushions.  "How  elegant,"  she 
simpered,  "I  just  think  it's  perfectly  swell.  Just  like 
Marshall  Field's.  I  must  bring  Mrs.  Merrifield  in  when  she 
comes  down — Mrs.  Merrifield  of  Chicago.  You  know,  Mr. 
Brotherton,"  it  was  the  wife  of  the  Judge  who  spoke,  "I 


354  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

think  we  should  try  to  cultivate  those  whose  wide  advantages 
make  our  association  with  them  a  liberal  education.  What 
is  it  Emerson  says  about  Friendship — in  that  wonderful 
essay — I'm  sure  you'll  recall  it." 

And  Mr.  Brotherton  was  sure  he  would  too,  and  indicated 
as  much,  for  as  he  had  often  said  to  Mr.  Fenn  in  their  literary 
confidences,  "Emerson  is  one  of  my  best  moving  lines." 
And  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  continued  confidentially :  "Now  there's 
a  book,  a  German  book — aren't  those  Germans  candid — you 
know  I'm  of  German  extraction,  and  I  tell  the  Judge  that's 
where  I  get  my  candor.  Well,  there's  a  German  book — I 
can't  pronounce  it,  so  I've  written  it  out — there;  will  you 
kindly  order  it?"  Mr.  Brotherton  took  the  slip  and  went 
to  the  back  of  the  store  to  make  a  memorandum  of  the  order. 
He  left  the  book  counter  in  charge  of  Miss  Calvin — Miss  Ave 
Calvin — yes,  Miss  Ave  Maria  Calvin,  if  you  must  know  her 
full  name,  which  she  is  properly  ashamed  of.  But  it  pleased 
her  mother  twenty  years  before  and  as  Mr.  Calvin  was  glad 
to  get  into  the  house  on  any  terms  when  the  baby  was  named, 
it  went  Ave  Maria  Calvin,  and  Ave  Maria  Calvin  stood  be 
hind  the  counter  reading  the  Bookman  and  trying  to  re 
member  the  names  of  the  six  best  sellers  so  that  she  could 
order  them  for  stock. 

Mrs.  Van  Dorn,  who  kept  Mrs.  Calvin 's  one  card  conspicu 
ously  displayed  in  her  silver  card  case  in  the  front  hall, 
saw  an  opportunity  to  make  a  little  social  hay,  so  she  ad 
dressed  Miss  Calvin  graciously:  "Good  morning,  Ave — how 
is  your  dear  mother?  What  a  charming  effect  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  has  produced!"  Then  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  dropped  the  care 
fully  modulated  voice  a  trifle  lower:  "When  the  book  comes 
that  I  just  ordered,  kindly  slip  it  to  one  side ;  I  wouldn  't  have 
Mr.  Brotherton — he  might  misunderstand.  But  you  can 
read  it  if  you  wish — take  it  home  over  night.  It's  very 
broadening." 

When  Mr.  Brotherton  returned  the  baby  voice  prattled  at 
him.  The  voice  was  saying,  "I  was  just  telling  Ave  how 
dead  swell  it  is  here.  I  just  can't  get  over  it — in  Harvey — 
dear  old  Harvey;  do  you  remember  when  I  was  a  little  school 
teacher  down  in  the  Prospect  schoolhouse  and  you  used  to 
order  Chautauqua  books — such  an  innocent  little  school  girl 


AN  OLD  TRADE  355 

— don't  you  remember  ?  We  wouldn't  say  how  long  ago  that 
was,  would  we,  Mr.  Brotherton ?  Oh,  dear,  no.  Isn't  it  nice 
to  talk  over  old  times?  Did  you  know  the  Jared  Thurstons 
have  left  Colorado  and  have  moved  to  Iowa  where  Jared  has 
started  another  paper  ?  Lizzie  and  I  used  to  be  such  chums 
—she  and  Violet  and  I— where  is  Violet  now,  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  Mrs.  Herdicker  said  she  lives  next 
door  to  the  kindergarten — down  in  South  Harvey.  Isn't  it 
terrible  the  way  Anne  Sands  did— just  broke  her  father's 
heart.  And  Nate  Perry  quarrelling  with  ten  million  dollars. 
Isn't  this  a  strange  world,  Mr.  Brotherton?" 

Mr.  Brotherton  confessed  for  the  world  and  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
shook  her  over-curled  head  sadly.  She  made  some  other  talk 
with  Mr.  Brotherton  which  he  paraphrased  later  for  Henry 
Fenn  and  when  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  went  out,  Mr.  Brotherton 
left  the  door  open  to  rid  the  room  of  the  scent  of  attar  of 
roses  and  said  to  Miss  Calvin : 

"Well,  s — ,"  but  checked  himself  and  went  on  in  his  new 
character  of  custodian  of  * '  The  Sweet  Serenity  of  Books  and 
Wall  Paper,"  but  he  added  as  a  compromise: 

"  'And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie'  I  certainly  would  make  a 
quick  get-away!" 

After  which  reflection,  Mr.  Brotherton  walked  down  the 
long  store  room  to  his  dark  stained  desk,  turned  on  the  elec 
tric  under  the  square  copper  shade,  and  began  to  figure  up 
his  accounts.  But  a  little  social  problem  kept  revolving  in 
his  head.  It  was  suggested  by  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  and  by  some 
thing  she  had  said.  Beside  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  in  her  tailored 
gown  and  seal-skin,  with  her  spanking  new  midwinter  hat  to 
match  her  coat,  dragging  the  useless  dog  after  her,  he  saw 
the  picture  of  another  woman  who  had  come  in  the  day 
before — a  woman  no  older  than  Margaret  Van  Dorn — yet  a 
broken  woman,  with  rounded  shoulders  who  rarely  smiled, 
wishing  to  hide  her  broken  teeth,  who  wheeled  one  baby  and 
led  another,  and  shooed  a  third  and  slipped  into  the  corner 
near  the  magazine  counter  and  thumbed  over  the  children's 
fashions  in  the  Delineator  eagerly  and  looked  wistfully  at  the 
beautiful  things  in  the  store.  Her  red  hands  and  brown  skin 
showed  that  she  had  lived  a  rough,  hard  life,  and  that  it  had 
spent  her  and  wasted  her  and  taken  everything  she  prized — 


356  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  given  her  nothing— nothing  but  three  over-dressed  chil 
dren  and  a  husband  whose  industrial  status  had  put  its  heavy 
mark  on  her. 

Mr.  Brotherton 's  memory  went  back  ten  years,  and  recalled 
the  two  girls  together — Violet  and  Margaret.  Both  were 
light-headed  and  vain;  so  far  as  their  relations  with  Van 
Dorn  were  concerned,  one  was  as  blamable  as  the  other.  Yet 
one  had  prospered  and  the  other  had  not — and  the  one  who 
had  apparently  suffered  most  had  upon  the  whole  lived  the 
cleaner,  more  normal  life— and  Mr.  Brotherton  drummed  his 
penholder  upon  the  black  desk  before  him  and  questioned  the 
justice  of  life. 

But,  indeed,  if  we  must  judge  life's  awards  and  benefits 
from  the  material  side  there  is  no  justice  in  life.  If  there 
was  any  difference  between  the  two  women  whom  Tom  Van 
Dorn  had  wronged — difference  in  rewards  or  punishments,  it 
must  have  been  in  their  hearts.  It  is  possible  that  in  her  life 
of  motherhood  and  wifehood,  in  the  sacrifices  that  broke  her 
body  and  scarred  her  face,  Violet  Mauling  may  have  been 
compensated  by  the  love  she  bore  the  children  upon  whom 
she  lavished  her  life.  For  she  had  that  love,  and  she  did 
squander — in  blind  vain  folly — the  strength  of  her  body, 
afterwards  the  price  of  her  soul— upon  her  children.  As 
for  Margaret  Van  Dorn— Mr.  Brotherton  was  no  philosopher. 
He  could  not  pity  her.  Yet  she  too  had  given  all.  She  had 
given  her  mind— and  it  was  gone.  She  had  given  her  heart 
—and  it  was  gone  also,  and  she  had  given  that  elusive  blend 
ing  of  the  heart  and  mind  we  call  her  soul — and  that  was 
gone,  too.  Mr.  Brotherton  could  see  that  they  were  gone — 
all  gone.  But  he  could  not  see  that  her  loss  was  greater  than 
Violet's. 

That  night  when  Dennis  Hogan  came  in  for  his  weekly 
Fireside  Companion  as  he  said,  "for  the  good  woman,"  Mr. 
Brotherton,  for  old  sake's  sake,  put  in  something  in  paper 
backs  by  Marie  Corelli,  and  a  novel  by  Ouida ;  and  then,  that 
he  might  give  until  it  hurt,  he  tied  up  a  brand  new  Ladies' 
Home  Journal,  and  said,  as  he  locked  up  the  store  and  stepped 
into  the  chill  night  air  with  Mr.  Hogan :  "Dennis — tell  Vio 
let — I  sent  'em  in  return  for  the  good  turns  she  used  to  do  me 


AN  OLD  TRADE  357 

when  I  was  mayor  and  she  was  in  Van  Dorn  's  office  and  drew 
up  the  city  ordinances — she'll  remember." 

"Indeed  she  will,  George  Brotherton — that  she  will. 
Many 's  the  night  she's  talked  me  to  sleep  of  them  golden  days 
of  her  splendor — indeed  she  will." 

They  walked  on  together  and  Hogan  said :  "Well — I  turn 
at  the  next  crossin'.  I'm  goin'  home  and  I'm  glad  of  it. 
Up  in  the  morniri'  at  five;  off  on  the  six- ten  train,  climbin' 
the  slag  dump  at  seven,  workin'  till  six,  home  on  the  six- 
fifteen  train,  into  the  house  at  seven;  to  bed  at  ten,  up  at 
five,  eat  and  work  and  sleep — sleep  and  eat  and  work,  fightin' 
the  dump  by  day  and  fightin7  the  fumes  in  me  chist  by  night 
— all  for  a  dollar  and  sixty  a  day ;  and  if  we  jine  a  union,  we 
get  canned,  and  if  we  would  seek  dissipation,  we're  invited 
to  go  down  to  the  Company  hall  and  listen  to  Tommy  Van 
Dorn  norate  upon  what  he  calls  the  'de-hig-nity  of  luh-ay- 
bor.7  Damn  sight  of  dignity  labor  has,  lopin'  three  laps 
ahead  of  the  garnishee  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other." 

He  laughed  a  good-natured,  creaking  laugh,  and  said  as  he 
waved  his  hand  to  part  with  Mr.  Brotherton — "Well,  anny- 
how,  the  good  woman  will  thank  you  for  the  extra  readin'; 
not  that  she  has  time  to  read  it,  God  knows,  but  it  gives  the 
place  a  tone  when  Laura  Nesbit  drops  in  for  a  bit  of  a  word 
of  help  about  the  makin'  of  the  little  white  things  she's  doin' 
for  the  Polish  family  on  'D'  Street  these  days."  In  an 
other  minute  Brotherton  heard  the  car  moaning  at  the  curve, 
and  saw  Ilogan  get  in.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Hogan 
got  to  sleep ;  for  the  papers  that  Brotherton  sent  brought 
back  "the  grandeur  that  was  Greece,"  and  he  had  to  hear 
how  Mr.  Van  Dorn  had  made  Mr.  Brotherton  mayor  and  how 
they  had  both  made  Dr.  Nesbit  Senator,  and  how  ungrateful 
the  Doctor  was  to  turn  against  the  hand  that  fed  him,  and 
many  other  incidents  and  tales  that  pointed  to  the  renown 
of  the  unimpeachable  Judge,  who  for  seven  years  had  reigned 
in  the  humble  house  of  Hogan  as  a  first-rate  god. 

That  night  Hogan  tossed  as  the  fumes  in  his  lungs  burned 
the  tissues  and  at  five  he  got  up,  made  the  fire,  helped  to  dress 
the  oldest  child  while  his  wife  prepared  the  breakfast.  He 
missed  the  six-ten  car,  and  being  late  at  work  stopped  in  to 


358  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

take  a  drink  at  the  Hot  Dog,  near  the  dump  on  the  company 
ground,  thinking  it  would  put  some  ginger  into  him  for  the 
day's  work.  For  two  hours  or  so  the  whiskey  livened  him 
up,  but  as  the  forenoon  grew  old,  he  began  to  yawn  and  was 
tired. 

"Hogan,"  called  the  dump-boss,  ''go  down  to  the  powder 
house  and  bring  up  a  box  of  persuaders. ' ' 

The  slag  was  hard  and  needed  blasting.  Hogan  looked  up, 
said  "What?"  and  before  the  dump  boss  could  speak  again 
Hogan  had  started  down  and  around  the  dump  to  the  powder 
house,  near  the  saloon.  He  went  into  the  powder  house,  and 
then  came  out,  carrying  a  heavy  box.  At  the  sidewalk  edge, 
Hogan,  who  was  yawning,  stumbled— they  saw  him  stumble, 
two  men  standing  in  the  door  of  the  Hot  Dog  saloon  a  block 
away,  and  they  told  the  people  at  the  inquest  that  that  was 
the  last  they  saw.  A  great  explosion  followed.  The  men 
about  the  dump  huddled  for  a  long  minute  under  freight 
cars,  then  crawled  out,  and  the  dump  boss  called  the  roll; 
Hogan  was  missing.  In  an  hour  they  came  and  took  Mrs. 
Hogan  to  the  undertaker's  room  near  the  smelter — where  so 
many  women  had  stood  beside  death  in  its  most  awful  forms. 
She  had  her  baby  in  her  arms,  with  another  plucking  at  her 
skirts  and  she  stood  mutely  beside  the  coffin  that  they  would 
not  open.  For  she  knew  what  other  women  knew  about  the 
smelter,  knew  that  when  they  will  not  open  the  coffin,  it 
must  not  be  opened.  So  the  little  procession  rode  to  the 
Hogan  home,  where  Laura  Van  Dorn  was  waiting.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  she  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  dead  that  it 
seemed  unreal  to  the  widow.  But  she  did  not  moan  nor 
cry — after  the  first  scream  that  came  when  she  knew  the 
worst.  Stolidly  she  went  through  her  tasks  until  after  the 
funeral. 

Then  she  called  Laura  into  the  kitchen  and  said,  as  she 
pressed  out  her  black  satin  and  tried  to  hide  the  threadbare 
seams  that  had  been  showing  for  years:  "Mrs.  Van  Dorn, 
I'm  going  to  do  something  you  won't  like."  To  Laura's 
questioning  eyes  Violet  answered:  "I  know  your  ma,  or 
some  one  else  has  told  you  all  about  me — but, ' '  she  shut  her 
mouth  tightly  and  said  slowly : 

"But  no  matter  what  they  say — I'm  going  to  the  Judge; 


AN  OLD  TRADE  359 

he's  got  to  make  the  railroad  company  pay  and  pay  well. 
It's  all  I've  got  on  earth — for  the  children.  We  have  three 
dollars  in  my  pocketbook  and  will  have  to  wait  until  the 
fifteenth  before  I  get  his  last  month's  wages,  and  I  know 
they'll  dock  him  up  to  the  very  minute  of  the  day — that 
day!  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  anything  else  on  earth,  Mrs.  Van 
Dorn — wild  horses  couldn't  drag  me  there — but  I'm  going 
to  the  Judge — for  the  children.  He  can  help." 

So,  putting  on  her  bedraggled  black  picture  hat  with  the 
red  ripped  off,  Violet  Hogan  mounted  the  courthouse  steps 
and  went  to  the  office  of  the  Judge.  A  sorry,  broken,  hag 
gard  figure  she  cut  there  in  the  Judge's  office.  She  would 
have  told  him  her  story — but  he  interrupted:  "Yes,  Violet 
— I  read  it  in  the  Times.  But  what  can  I  do — you  know  I  'm 
not  allowed  to  take  a  case  and,  besides,  he  was  working  for 
the  railroad,  and  you  know,  Violet,  he  assumed  the  risk. 
What  do  they  offer  you?" 

"Judge — for  God's  sake  don't  talk  that  way  to  me. 
That's  the  way  you  used  to  talk  to  those  miners'  wives — 
ugh  ! ' '  she  cried.  * '  I  remember  it  all — that  assumed  risk. 
Only  this — he  was  working  ten  hours  a  day  on  a  job  that 
wouldn't  let  him  sleep,  and  he  oughtn't  to  be  working  but 
eight  hours,  if  they  hadn't  sneaked  under  the  law.  They've 
offered  me  five  hundred,  Judge — five  hundred — for  a  man, 
five  hundred  for  our  three  children — and  me.  You  can  make 
them  do  better — oh,  I  know  you  can.  Oh,  please  for  the 
sake — oh ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  battered  face,  and  as  her  mouth 
quivered,  she  tried  to  hide  her  broken  teeth.  He  saw  she 
was  about  to  give  way  to  tears.  He  dreaded  a  scene.  He 
looked  at  her  impatiently  and  finally  gripping  himself  after 
a  decision,  he  said : 

"Now,  Violet,  take  a  brace.  Five  hundred  is  what  they 
always  give  in  these  cases."  He  smiled  suavely  at  her  and 
she  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  his  lip  was  bare  and 
started  at  the  cruel  mouth  that  leered  at  her. 

"But,"  he  added  expansively,  "for  old  sake's  sake — I'm 
going  to  do  something  for  you."  He  rose  and  stood  over  her. 
"Now,  Violet,"  he  said,  strutting  the  diagonal  of  his  room, 
arid  smiling  blandly  at  her,  "we  both  know  why  I  shouldn't 


360  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

give  you  my  personal  check — nor  why  you  shouldn  't  have  any 
cash  that  you  cannot  account  for.  But  the  superintendent 
of  the  smelter,  who  is  also  the  general  manager  of  the  rail 
road,  is  under  some  obligations  to  me,  and  I'll  give  you  this 
note  to  him. ' '  He  sat  down  and  wrote : 

"For  good  reasons  I  desire  one  hundred  dollars  added  to  your  check 
to  the  widow  of  Dennis  Hogan  who  presents  this,  and  to  have  the 
same  charged  to  my  personal  account  on  your  books." 

He  signed  his  name  with  a  flourish,  and  after  reading  the 
note  handed  it  to  the  woman. 

She  looked  at  him  and  her  mouth  opened,  showing  her 
broken,  ragged  teeth.  Then  she  rose. 

"My  God,  Tom  Van  Dorn — haven't  you  any  heart  at  all! 
Six  hundred  dollars  with  three  little  children — and  my  man 
butchered  by  a  law  you  made — oh,"  she  cried  as  she  shook 
her  head  and  stood  dry-eyed  and  agonized  before  him — "I 
thought  you  were  a  man — that  you  were  my  friend  way 
down  deep  in  your  heart — I  thought  you  were  a  man." 

She  picked  up  the  paper,  and  at  the  door  turned  and  said : 
"And  you  could  get  me  thousands  from  the  company  for  my 
hundreds  by  the  scratch  of  your  pen — and  I  thought  you 
were  a  man."  She  opened  the  door,  looked  at  him  beseech 
ingly,  and  repeating  her  complaint,  turned  away  and  left 
him. 

She  heard  the  click  of  the  door-latch  behind  her  and  she 
knew  that  the  man  behind  the  door  in  whom  she  had  put 
her  faith  was  laughing  at  her.  Had  she  not  seen  him  laugh 
a  score  of  times  in  other  years  at  the  misery  of  other  women  ? 
Had  they  not  sat  behind  this  door,  he  and  she,  and  made  sport 
of  foolish  women  who  came  asking  the  disagreeable,  which 
he  ridiculed  as  the  impossible?  Had  she  not  sat  with  him 
and  laughed  at  his  first  wife,  when  she  had  gone  away  after 
some  protest?  The  thought  of  his  mocking  face  put  hate 
into  her  heart  and  she  went  home  hardened  toward  all  the 
world.  Laura  Van  Dorn  was  with  the  Hogan  children,  and 
when  Violet  entered  the  house,  she  gathered  them  to  her  heart 
with  a  mad  passion  and  wept — a  woman  without  hope — a 
woman  spurned  and  mocked  in  the  only  holy  place  she  had 
in  her  heart. 


AN  OLD  TRADE  361 

Laura  saw  the  widowed  mother  hysterically  fondling  the 
children,  madly  caressing  them,  foolishly  chattering  over 
them,  and  when  Violet  made  it  clear  that  she  wished  to  be 
alone,  Laura  left.  But  if  she  could  have  heard  Violet  bab 
bling  on  during  the  evening,  of  the  clothes  she  would  buy  for 
the  youngsters,  about  the  good  times  they  would  have  with 
the  money,  about  the  ways  they  were  going  to  spend  the  little 
fortune  that  was  theirs,  Laura  Van  Dorn — thrifty,  frugal, 
shrewd  Laura,  might  have  helped  the  thoughtless  woman 
before  it  was  too  late.  But  even  if  Laura  had  interfered,  it 
would  have  been  but  for  a  few  months  or  a  few  years  at  most. 

The  end  was  inevitable — whether  it  had  been  five  hundred 
or  six  hundred  or  five  thousand  or  six  thousand.  For  Violet 
was  a  prodigal  bred  and  born.  At  first  she  tried  to  get  some 
work.  But  when  she  found  she  had  to  leave  the  children 
alone  in  the  house  or  in  care  of  a  neighbor  or  on  the  streets, 
she  gave  up  her  job.  For  when  she  came  home,  she  found 
the  foolish  frills  and  starched  tucks  in  which  she  kept  them, 
dirty  and  torn,  and  some  way  she  felt  that  they  were  losing 
social  caste  by  the  low  estate  of  their  clothes,  so  she  bought 
them  silks  and  fine  linens  while  her  money  lasted,  and  when 
it  was  gone  in  the  spring — then  they  were  hungry,  and 
needy ;  and  she  could  not  leave  them  by  day. 

If  the  poor  were  always  wise,  and  the  rich  were  always 
foolish,  if  hardship  taught  us  sense,  and  indulgence  made 
us  giddy,  what  a  fine  world  it  would  be.  How  virtue  would 
be  rewarded.  How  vice  would  be  rebuked.  But  wisdom  does 
not  run  with  social  rank,  nor  with  commercial  rating.  Some 
of  us  who  are  poor  are  exceedingly  foolish,  and  some  of  those 
who  are  rich  have  a  world  of  judgment.  And  Violet  Hogan, 
— poor  and  mad  with  a  mother  love  that  was  as  insane  as  an 
animal 's  when  she  saw  her  children  hungry  and  needy,  knew 
before  she  knew  anything  else  that  she  must  live  with  them 
by  day.  So  she  went  out  at  night — went  out  into  the  streets 
— not  of  South  Harvey — but  over  into  the  streets  of  Foley, 
down  to  Magnus  and  Plain  Valley — out  into  the  dark  places. 
There  Violet  by  night  took  up  the  oldest  trade  in  the  world, 
and  came  home  by  day  a  mad,  half  crazed  mothering  animal 
who  covers  her  young  in  dread  and  fear. 

When  Laura  knew  the  truth — knew  it  surely  in  spite  of 


362  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Violet's  studied  deceptions,  and  her  outright  falsehoods,  the 
silver  in  the  woman's  laugh  was  muffled  for  a  long  time. 
She  tried  to  help  the  mad  mother ;  but  the  mother  would  not 
admit  the  truth,  would  not  confess  that  she  needed  help. 
Violet  maintained  the  fiction  that  she  was  working  in  the 
night  shift  at  the  glass  factory  in  Magnus,  and  by  day  she 
starched  and  ironed  and  pressed  and  washed  for  the  over 
dressed  children  and  as  she  said,  "  tried  to  keep  them  some 
body."  Moreover,  she  would  not  let  them  play  with  the 
dirty  children  of  the  neighborhood,  but  such  is  the  fear  of 
social  taint  among  women,  that  soon  the  other  mothers  called 
their  children  home  when  the  Hogan  children  appeared. 

When  Violet  discovered  that  her  trade  was  branding  her 
children — she  moved  to  Magnus  and  became  part  of  the  drab 
tide  of  life  that  flows  by  us  daily  with  its  heartbreak  un 
heeded,  its  sorrows  unknown,  its  anguish  pent  up  and  un- 
comforted. 

Now  much  meditation  on  the  fate  of  Violet  Hogan  and 
upon  the  luck  of  Margaret  Van  Dorn  had  made  George 
Brotherton  question  the  moral  government  of  the  universe 
and,  being  disturbed  in  his  mind,  he  naturally  was  moved 
to  language.  So  one  raw  spring  day  when  no  one  was  in 
the  Amen  Corner  but  Mr.  Fenn,  in  a  moment  of  inadvertent 
sobriety,  Mr.  Brotherton  opened  up  his  heart  and  spoke 
thus: 

"Say,  Henry — what's  a  yogi?"  Mr.  Fenn  refused  to 
commit  himself.  Mr.  Brotherton  continued:  "The  Ex  was 
in  here  the  other  day  and  she  says  that  she  thinks  she's 
going  to  become  a  yogi.  I  asked  her  to  spell  it,  and  I  told 
her  I'd  be  for  her  against  all  comers.  Then  she  explained 
that  a  yogi  was  some  kind  of  an  adept  who  could  transcend 
space  and  time,  and — well  say,  I  said  'sure,'  and  she  went 
on  to  ask  me  if  I  was  certain  we  were  not  thinking  matter 
instead  of  realizing  it,  and  I  says: 

"  'I  bite;  what's  the  sell?' 

"And  the  Ex  says — 'Now,  seriously,  Mr.  Brotherton,  some 
thing  tells  me  that  you  have  in  your  mind,  if  you  would  only 
search  it  out,  vague  intimations,  left-over  impressions  of  the 
day  you  were  an  ox  afield/ 


AN  OLD  TRADE  363 

"And,  well  say,  Henry,  I  says,  'No,  madam,  it  is  an  ass  that 
rises  in  me  betimes. ' 

"And  the  Ex  says,  'George  Brotherton,  you  just  never 
can  talk  sense. ' 

"So  while  I  was  wrapping  up  'Sappho'  and  ordering  her 
a  book  with  a  title  that  sounded  like  a  college  yell,  she  told 
me  she  was  getting  on  a  higher  plane,  and  I  bowed  her  out. 
Say,  Hen— now  wouldn't  that  jar  you?— the  Ex  getting  on 
a  higher  plane." 

Mr.  Fenn  grinned — a  sodden  grin  with  a  four  days'  beard 
on  it,  and  dirty  teeth,  and  heavy  eyes,  then  looked  stupidly 
at  the  floor  and  sighed  and  said, 

"George,  did  you  know  I've  quit?"  To  Mr.  Brotherton 's 
kindly  smile  the  other  man  replied : 

"Yes,  sir,  sawed  'er  right  off  short — St.  Patrick's  Day. 
I  thought  I  'd  ought  to  quit  last  Fourth  of  July — when- 1 
tried  to  eat  a  live  pinwheel.  I  thought  I  had  gone  far 
enough."  He  lifted  up  his  burned-out  eyes  in  the  faded 
smile  that  once  shone  like  an  arc  light,  and  said : 

"Man's  a  fool  to  get  tangled  up  with  liquor.  George, 
when  I  get  my  board  bill  paid — I'm  going  to  quit  the  auc 
tioning  line,  and  go  back  to  law.  But  my  landlady 's  needing 
that  money,  and  I'm  a  little  behind — " 

Mr.  Brotherton  made  a  motion  for  his  pocket.  "No,  I 
don't  want  a  cent  of  your  money,  George,"  Fenn  expostu 
lated.  "I  was  just  telling  you  how  things  are.  I  knew 
you'd  like  to  know." 

Mr.  Brotherton  came  from  behind  the  counter  where  he 
had  been  arranging  his  stock  for  the  night,  and  grasped 
Henry  Fenn's  hand.  "Say,  Henry— you're  all  right. 
You're  a  man — I've  always  said  so.  I  tell  you,  Hen,  I've 
been  to  lots  of  funerals  in  this  town  first  and  last  as  pall 
bearer  or  choir  singer — pretty  nearly  every  one  worth  while, 
but  say,  I  'm  right  here  to  tell  you  that  I  have  never  went  to 
one  I  was  sorrier  over  than  yours,  Henry — and  I'm  mighty 
glad  to  see  you're  coming  to  again." 

Henry  Fenn  smiled  weakly  and  said:  "That's  right, 
George — that's  right." 

And  Mr.  Brotherton  went  on,  "I  claim  the  lady  give  you 


364  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  final  push — not  that  she  needed  to  push  hard  of  course; 
but  a  little  pulling  might  have  held  you." 

Mr.  Fenn  rose  to  leave  and  sighed  again  as  he  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  doorway — "Yes,  George,  perhaps  so — poor 
Maggie — poor  Maggie." 

Mr.  Brotherton  looked  at  the  man  a  moment — saw  his 
round  hat  with  neither  back  nor  front  and  only  the  wreck  of 
a  band  around  it,  his  tousled  clothes,  his  shoes  with  the  soles 
curling  at  the  sides  and  the  frowsy  face,  from  which  the  man 
peered  out  a  second  and  then  slunk  back  again,  and  Mr. 
Brotherton  took  to  his  book  shelf,  scratched  his  head  and 
indicated  by  his  manner  that  life  was  too  deep  a  problem 
for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IN   WHICH   THE  ANGELS   SHAKE   A  FOOT   FOR   HENRY  FENN 

THE  business  of  life  largely  resolves  itself  into  a  prep 
aration  for  the  next  generation.  The  torch  of  life 
moves  steadily  forward.  For  children  primarily  life 
has  organized  itself  to  satisfy  decently  and  in  order,  the 
insatiate  primal  hungers  that  motive  mankind.  It  was  with 
a  wisdom  deeper  than  he  understood  that  George  Brotherton 
spoke  one  day,  as  he  stood  in  his  doorway  and  saw  Judge 
Van  Dorn  hurrying  across  the  street  to  speak  to  Lila. 
" There,"  roared  Mr.  Brotherton  to  Nathan  Perry,  "well,  say 
— there's  the  substance  all  right,  man."  And  then  as 
the  Judge  turned  wearily  away  with  slinking  shoulders  to 
avoid  meeting  the  eyes  of  his  wife,  plump,  palpable,  and 
always  personable,  who  came  around  the  corner,  Mr.  Brother- 
ton,  with  a  haw-haw  of  appreciation  of  his  obvious  irony, 
cried,  "And  there's  the  shadow — I  don't  think."  But  it 
was  the  substance  and  the  shadow  nevertheless,  and  possibly 
the  Judge  knew  them  as  the  considerations  of  his  bargain 
with  the  devil.  For  always  he  was  trying  to  regain  the  sub 
stance;  to  take  Lila  to  his  heart,  where  curiously  there 
seemed  some  need  of  love,  even  in  a  heart  which  was  conse 
crated  in  the  very  temple  of  love.  Without  realizing  that 
he  was  modifying  his  habits  of  life,  he  began  to  drop  in 
casually  to  see  the  children 's  Christmas  exercises,  and  Thanks 
giving  programs,  and  Easter  services  at  John  Dexter 's 
church.  From  the  back  seat  where  he  always  sat  alone,  he 
sometimes  saw  the  wealth  of  affection  that  her  mother 
lavished  on  Lila,  patting  her  ribbons,  smoothing  her  hair, 
straightening  her  dress,  fondling  her,  correcting  her,  and 
watching  the  child  with  eyes  so  full  of  love  that  they  did 
not  refrain  sometimes  from  smiling  in  kindly  appreciation 
into  the  eager,  burning,  tired  eyes  of  the  Judge.  The  mother 

365 


366  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

understood  why  he  came  to  the  exercises,  and  often  she  sent 
Lila  to  her  father  for  a  word.  The  town  knew  these  things, 
and  the  Judge  knew  that  the  town  knew,  and  even  then  he 
could  not  keep  away.  He  had  to  carry  the  torch  of  life, 
whether  he  would  or  not,  even  though  sometimes  it  must  have 
scorched  his  proud,  white  hands.  It  was  the  only  thing  that 
burned  with  real  fire  in  his  heart. 

With  Laura  Van  Dorn  the  fact  of  her  motherhood  colored 
her  whole  life.  Never  a  baby  was  born  among  her  poor 
neighbors  in  the  valley  that  she  did  not  thrill  with  a  keen 
delight  at  its  coming,  and  welcome  it  with  some  small  ma 
terial  token  of  her  joy.  In  the  baby  she  lived  over  again 
her  own  first  days  of  maternity.  But  it  was  no  play  mother 
hood  that  restored  her  soul  and  refilled  her  receptacle  of  faith 
day  by  day.  The  bodily,  huggable  presence  of  her  daughter 
continually  unfolding  some  new  beauty  kept  her  eager  for 
the  day's  work  to  close  in  the  Valley  that  she  might  go  home 
to  drop  the  vicarious  happiness  that  she  brought  in  her  kin 
dergarten  for  the  real  happiness  of  a  home. 

Often  Grant  Adams,  hurrying  by  on  his  lonely  way,  paused 
to  tell  Laura  of  a  needy  family,  or  to  bring  a  dirty,  motherless 
child  to  her  haven,  or  to  ask  her  to  go  to  some  wayward  girl, 
newly  caught  in  the  darker  corners  of  the  spider's  web. 

Doggedly  day  by  day,  little  by  little,  he  was  bringing  the 
workmen  of  the  Valley  to  see  his  view  of  the  truth.  The 
owners  were  paying  spies  to  spy  upon  him  and  he  knew  it, 
and  the  high  places  of  his  satisfaction  came  when,  knowing 
a  spy  and  marking  him  for  a  victim,  Grant  converted  him 
to  the  union  cause.  With  the  booming  of  the  big  guns  of 
prosperity  in  Harvey,  he  was  a  sort  of  undertone,  a  monoto 
nous  drum,  throbbing  through  the  valley  a  menace  beneath 
it  all.  Once — indeed,  twice,  as  he  worked,  he  organized  a 
demand  for  higher  wages  in  two  or  three  of  the  mines,  and 
keeping  himself  in  the  background,  yet  cautiously  managing 
the  tactics  of  the  demand,  he  won.  He  held  Sunday  meet 
ings  in  such  halls  as  the  men  could  afford  to  hire  and  there 
he  talked — talked  the  religion  of  democracy.  As  labor  moved 
about  in  the  world,  and  as  the  labor  press  of  the  country  be 
gan  to  know  of  Grant,  he  acquired  a  certain  fame  as  a  speaker 
among  labor  leaders.  And  the  curious  situation  he  was  creat- 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT  367 

ing  gave  him  some  reputation  in  other  circles.  He  was  good 
for  an  occasional  story  in  a  Kansas  City  or  Chicago  Sunday 
paper;  and  the  Star  reporter,  sent  to  do  the  feature  story, 
told  of  a  lonely,  indomitable  figure  who  was  the  idol  of  the 
laboring  people  of  the  Wahoo  Valley;  of  his  Sunday  meet 
ings  ;  of  his  elaborate  system  of  organization ;  of  his  peaceful 
demands  for  higher  wages  and  better  shop  conditions ;  of  his 
conversion  of  spies  sent  to  hinder  him,  of  his  never-ceasing 
effort,  unsupported  by  outside  labor  leaders,  unvisited  by 
the  aristocracy  of  the  labor  world,  yet  always  respecting  it, 
to  preach  unionism  as  a  faith  rather  than  as  a  material 
means  for  material  advancement. 

Generally  the  reporters  devoted  a  paragraph  to  the  ques 
tion — what  manner  of  man  is  this  ? — and  intimating  more  or 
less  frankly  that  he  was  a  man  of  one  idea,  or  perhaps  broad 
ening  the  suggestion  into  a  query  whether  or  not  a  man  who 
would  work  for  years,  scorning  fame,  scorning  regular  em 
ployment  and  promotion,  neglecting  opportunities  to  rise 
as  a  labor  leader  in  his  own  world,  was  not  just  a  little  mad. 
So  it  happened  that  without  seeking  fame,  fame  came  to  him. 
All  over  the  Missouri  Valley,  men  knew  that  Grant  Adams, 
a  big,  lumbering,  red-polled,  lusty-lunged  man  with  one  arm 
burned  off — and  the  story  of  the  burning  fixed  the  man 
always  in  the  public  heart — with  a  curious  creed  and  a  freak 
gift  for  expounding  it,  was  doing  unusual  things  with  the 
labor  situation  in  the  Harvey  district.  And  then  one  day  a 
reporter  came  from  Omaha  who  uncovered  this  bit  of  news 
in  his  Sunday  feature  story: 

"Last  week  the  Wahoo  district  was  paralyzed  by  the  announcement 
that  Nathan  Perry,  the  new  superintendent  of  the  Independent  mines 
had  raised  his  wage  scale,  and  had  acceded  to  every  change  in  work 
ing  conditions  that  the  local  labor  organizations  under  Adams  had 
asked.  Moreover,  he  has  unionized  his  mine  and  will  recognize  only 
union  grievance  committees  in  dealing  with  the  men.  The  effect  of 
such  an  announcement  in  a  district  where  the  avowed  purpose  of  the 
mine  operators  is  to  run  their  own  business  as  they  please,  may  easily 
be  imagined. 

"Perry  is  a  civil  engineer  from  Boston  Tech.,  a  rich  man's  son, 
who  married  a  rich  man's  daughter,  and  then  cut  loose  from  his  father 
and  father-in-law  because  of  a  political  disagreement  over  the 
candidacy  of  the  famous  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  for  a  judicial 
nomination  a  few  years  ago.  Perry  belongs  to  a  new  type  in  in- 


368  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

dustry — rather  newer  than  Adams's  type.  Perry  is  a  keen  eyed, 
boyish-looking  young  man  who  has  no  illusions  about  Adams's  de 
mocracy  of  labor. 

"  'I  am  working  out  an  engineering  problem  with  men,'  said 
Perry  to  a  reporter  to-day.  'What  1  want  is  coal  in  the  cage.  1 
figure  that  more  wages  will  put  more  corn  meal  in  a  man's  belly, 
more  muscle  on  his  back,  more  hustle  in  his  legs,  and  more  blood  in 
his  brain.  And  primarily  I'm  buying  muscle  and  hustle  and  brains. 
If  I  can  make  the  muscle  and  hustle  and  brains  I  buy,  yield  better 
dividends  than  the  stuff  my  competitors  buy,  I'll  hold  my  job.  If  not, 
I'll  lose  it.  I  am  certainly  working  for  my  job.' 

"Of  course  the  town  doesn't  believe  for  a  moment  what  Perry  says. 
The  town  is  divided.  Part  of  the  town  thinks  that  Perry  is  an  Adams 
convert  and  a  fool,  the  other  half  of  the  town  believes  that  the  move 
is  part  of  a  conspiracy  of  certain  eastern  financial  interests  to  get 
control  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  properties  by  spreading  dissension.  Feel 
ing  is  bitter  and  Adams  and  Perry  are  coming  in  for  considerable 
abuse.  D.  Sands,  the  local  industrial  entrepreneur,  has  raised  the 
black  flag  on  h*is  son-in-law,  and  an  interesting  time  looms  ahead." 

But  often  at  night  in  Perry 's  home  in  South  Harvey,  where 
Morty  Sands  and  Grant  Adams  loved  to  congregate,  there 
were  hot  discussions  on  the  labor  question.  For  Nathan 
Perry  was  no  convert  of  Grant  Adams. 

As  the  men  wrangled,  many  an  hour  sat  Anne  Perry  sing 
ing  the  nest  song  as  she  made  little  things  for  the  lower 
bureau  drawer.  Sometimes  in  the  evening,  Morty  would 
sit  by  the  kitchen  stove,  sadly  torn  in  heart,  between  the  two 
debaters,  seeing  the  justice  of  Grant 's  side  as  an  ethical 
question,  but  admiring  the  businesslike  way  in  which  Nathan 
waved  aside  ethical  considerations,  damned  Grant  for  a  crazy 
man,  and  proclaimed  the  gospel  of  efficiency. 

Often  Grant  walked  home  from  these  discussions  with  his 
heart  hot  and  rebellious.  He  saw  life  only  in  its  spiritual 
aspect  and  the  logic  of  Nathan  Perry  angered  him  with  its 
collusiveness. 

Often  as  he  walked  Kenyon  was  upon  his  heart  and  he 
wondered  if  Margaret  missed  the  boy;  or  if  the  small  fame 
that  the  boy  was  making  with  his  music  had  touched  her  van 
ity  with  a  sense  of  loss.  He  wondered  if  she  ever  wished 
to  help  the  child.  The  whole  town  knew  that  the  Nesbits 
were  sending  Kenyon  to  Boston  to  study  music,  and  that 
Amos  Adams  and  Grant  could  contribute  little  to  the  child's 
support.  Grant  wondered,  considering  the  relations  between 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT      369 

the  Van  Dorns  and  Nesbits,  whether  sometimes  Margaret 
did  not  feel  a  twinge  of  irritation  or  regret  at  the  course  of 
things. 

He  could  not  know  that  even  as  he  walked  through  the 
November  night,  Margaret  Van  Dorn  was  sitting  in  her  room 
holding  in  her  hand  a  tiny  watch,  a  watch  to  delight  a  little 
girl's  heart.  On  the  inside  of  the  back  of  the  watch  was 
engraved : 

"To  Lila 

from  her 

Father,  for 

Her    10th   birthday." 

And  opposite  the  inscription  in  the  watch  was  pasted  the 
photograph  of  the  unhappy  face  of  the  donor.  Margaret 
sat  gazing  at  the  trinket  arid  wondering  vaguely  what  would 
delight  a  little  boy's  heart  as  a  watch  would  warm  the  heart 
of  a  little  girl.  It  was  not  a  sense  of  loss,  not  regret,  cer 
tainly  not  remorse  that  moved  her  heart  as  she  sat  alone  hold 
ing  the  trinket — discovered  on  her  husband's  dresser;  it  was 
a  weak  and  footless  longing,  and  a  sense  of  personal  wrong 
that  rose  against  her  husband.  He  had  something  which  she 
had  not.  He  could  give  jeweled  watches,  and  she — 

But  if  she  only  could  have  read  life  aright  she  would  have 
pitied  him  that  he  could  give  only  jeweled  watches,  only 
paper  images  of  a  dissatisfied  face,  only  material  things, 
the  token  of  a  material  philosophy — all  that  he  knew  arid 
all  that  he  had,  to  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  he  really 
could  love.  And  as  for  Margaret,  his  wife,  who  lived  his 
life  and  his  philosophy,  she,  too,  had  nothing  with  which  to 
satisfy  the  dull,  empty  feeling  in  her  heart  when  she  thought 
of  Kenyon,  save  to  make  peace  with  it  in  hard  metal  and 
stupid  stones.  Thus  does  what  we  think  crust  over  our 
souls  and  make  us  what  we  are. 

Grant  Adams,  plodding  homeward  that  night,  turned  from 
the  thought  of  Margaret  to  the  thought  of  Kenyon  with  a 
wave  of  joy,  counting  the  days  and  weeks  and  the  months 
until  the  boy  should  return  for  the  summer.  At  home  Grant 
sat  down  before  the  kitchen  table  and  began  a  long  talk  that 
kept  him  until  midnight.  He  had  undertaken  to  organize 
all  the  unions  of  the  place  into  a  central  labor  council;  the 


370  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

miners,  the  smeltermen,  the  teamsters,  the  cement  factory 
workers,  the  workers  in  the  building  trades.  It  was  an  ex 
perimental  plan,  under  the  auspices  of  the  national  union 
officers.  Only  a  man  like  Grant  Adams,  with  something  more 
than  a  local  reputation  as  a  leader,  would  have  been  intrusted 
with  the  work.  And  so,  after  his  day's  toil  for  bread,  he 
sat  at  his  kitchen  table,  elaborately  working  his  dream  into 
reality. 

That  season  the  devil,  if  there  is  a  devil  who  seeks  to 
swerve  us  from  what  we  deem  our  noblest  purposes,  came  to 
Grant  Adams  disguised  in  an  offer  of  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  to  Grant  for  a  year's  work  in  the  lecture  field.  The 
letter  bearing  the  offer  explained  that  by  going  out  and 
preaching  the  cause  of  labor  to  the  people,  Grant  would  be 
doing  his  cause  more  good  than  by  staying  in  Harvey  and 
fighting  alone.  The  thought  came  to  him  that  the  wider 
field  of  work  would  give  him  greater  personal  fame,  to  be 
used  ultimately  for  a  wider  influence.  All  one  long  day  as 
he  worked  with  hammer  and  saw  at  his  trade,  Grant  turned 
the  matter  over  in  his  mind.  He  could  see  himself  in  a 
larger  canvas,  working  a  greater  good.  Perhaps  some  fleet 
ing  unformed  idea  came  to  him  of  a  home  and  a  normal  life 
as  other  men  live ;  for  at  noon,  without  consciously  connecting 
her  with  his  dream,  he  took  his  problem  to  Laura  Van  Doru 
at  her  kindergarten.  That  afternoon  he  decided  to  accept 
the  offer,  and  put  much  of  his  reason  for  acceptance  upon 
Kenyon  and  the  boy's  needs.  That  night  he  penned  a  letter 
of  acceptance  to  the  lecture  bureau  and  went  to  bed,  dis 
turbed  and  unsatisfied.  Before  he  slept  he  turned  and 
twisted,  and  finally  threshed  himself  to  sleep.  It  was  a  light 
fragmentary  sleep,  that  moves  in  and  out  of  some  strange 
hypnoidal  state  where  the  lower  consciousness  and  the  normal 
consciousness  wrestle  for  the  control  of  reason.  Then  after 
a  long  period  of  half-waking  dreams,  toward  morning,  Grant 
sank  into  a  profound  sleep.  In  that  sleep  his  soul,  released 
from  all  that  is  material,  rose  and  took  command  of  his  will. 

When  Grant  awoke,  it  was  still  black  night.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  did  not  know  where  he  was — nor  even  who  he 
was,  nor  what.  He  was  a  mere  consciousness.  The  first 
glimmer  of  identity  that  came  to  him  came  with  a  roaring 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT  371 

"No"  that  repeated  itself  over  and  over,  "No — no,"  cried 
the  voice  of  his  soul — "you  are  no  mere  word  spinner;  you 
are  a  fighter ;  you  are  pledged,  body  and  soul ;  you  are  bought 
with  a  price — no,  no,  no." 

And  then  he  knew  where  he  was  and  he  knew  surely  and 
without  doubt  or  quaver  of  faith  that  he  must  not  give  up 
his  place  in  the  fight.  When  he  thought  of  Keriyon  living 
on  the  bounty  of  the  Nesbits,  he  thought  also  of  Dick  Bow 
man,  ordering  his  own  son  under  the  sliding  earth  to  hold 
the  shovel  over  Grant's  face  in  the  mine. 

So  Grant  Adams  bent  his  shoulders  to  this  familiar  burden. 
In  the  early  morning,  before  his  father  and  Jasper  were  up, 
the  gaunt,  ungainly  figure  hurried  with  his  letter  of  refusal 
to  the  South  Harvey  Station  and  put  the  letter  on  the  seven- 
ten  train  for  Chicago. 

That  evening,  sitting  on  their  front  porch,  the  Dexters 
talked  over  Grant's  decision.  "Well,"  said  John  Dexter, 
looking  up  into  the  mild  November  sky,  and  seeing  the  brown 
gray  smudge  of  the  smelter  there,  "so  Grant  has  sidled  by 
another  devil  in  his  road.  We  have  seen  that  women  won't 
stop  him;  it's  plain  that  money  nor  fame  won't  stop  him, 
though  they  clearly  tore  his  coat  tails.  I  imagine  from  what 
Laura  says  he  must  have  decided  once  to  accept." 

"Yes,"  answered  his  wife,  "but  it  does  seem  to  me,  if  my 
old  father  needed  care  as  his  does,  and  my  brother  had  to 
accept  charity,  I'd  give  that  particular  devil  my  whole  coat 
and  see  if  I  couldn't  make  a  bargain  with  him  for  a  little 
money,  at  some  small  cost." 

"Mother  Eve — Mother  Eve,"  smiled  the  minister,  "you 
women  are  so  practical — we  men  are  the  real  idealists — the 
only  dreamers  who  stand  by  our  dreams  in  this  wicked, 
weary  world." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  ' '  There  is  still  one  more  big 
black  devil  waiting  for  Grant:  Power — the  love  of  power 
which  is  the  lust  of  usefulness — power  may  catch  Grant 
after  he  has  escaped  from  women  and  money  and  fame. 
Vanity — vanity,  saith  the  preacher — Heaven  help  Grant  in 
the  final  struggle  with  the  big,  black  devil  of  vanity." 

Yet,  after  all,  vanity  has  in  it  the  seed  of  a  saving 
grace  that  has  lifted  humanity  over  many  pitfalls  in  the 


372  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

world.  For  vanity  is  only  self-respect  multiplied ;  and  when 
that  goes — when  men  and  women  lose  their  right  to  lift  their 
faces  to  God,  they  have  fallen  upon  bad  times  indeed.  It 
was  even  so  good  a  man  as  John  Dexter  himself,  who  tried 
to  put  self-respect  into  the  soul  of  Violet  Hogari,  and  was 
mocked  for  it. 

"What  do  they  care  for  me?"  she  cried,  as  he  sat  talking  to 
her  in  her  miserable  home  one  chill  November  day.  "Why 
should  I  pay  any  attention  to  them?  Once  I  chummed  with 
Mag  Miiller,  before  she  married  Henry  Fenn,  and  I  was  as 
good  as  she  was  then — and  am  now  for  that  matter.  She 
knew  what  I  was,  and  I  knew  what  she  was  going  to  be — we 
made  no  bones  of  it.  We  hunted  in  pairs — as  women  like  to. 
And  I  know  Mag  Miiller.  So  why  should  I  keep  up  for 
her?" 

The  woman  laughed  and  showed  her  hollow  mouth  and  all 
the  wrinkles  of  her  broken  face,  that  the  paint  hid  at  night. 
"And  as  for  Tom  Van  Dorn — I  was  a  decent  girl  before  I 
met  him,  Mr.  Dexter— and  why  in  God 's  name  should  1  try 
to  keep  up  for  him?" 

She  shuddered  and  would  have  sobbed  but  he  stopped  her 
with:  "Well,  Violet — wife  and  I  have  always  been  your 
friends;  we  are  now.  The  church  will  help  you." 

"Oh,  the  church — the  church,"  she  laughed.  "It  can't 
help  me.  Fancy  me  in  church — with  all  the  wives  looking 
sideways  at  all  the  husbands  to  see  that  they  didn't  look  too 
long  at  me.  The  church  is  for  those  who  haven't  been 
caught!  God  knows  if  there  is  a  place  for  any  one  who  has 
been  caught — and  I  've  been  caught  and  caught  and  caught. ' ' 
She  cried.  ' '  Only  the  children  don 't  know — not  yet,  though 
little  Tom — he's  the  oldest,  he  came  to  -me  and  asked  me 
yesterday  why  the  other  children  yelled  when  I  went  out. 
Oh,  hell — "  she  moaned,  "what's  the  use — what's  the  use — 
what's  the  use !"  and  fell  to  sobbing  with  her  head  upon  her 
arms  resting  upon  the  bare,  dirty  table. 

It  was  rather  a  difficult  question  for  John  Dexter.  Only 
one  other  minister  in  the  world  ever  answered  it  successfully, 
and  He  brought  public  opinion  down  on  Him.  The  Rev. 
John  Dexter  rose,  and  stood  looking  at  the  shattered  thing 
that  once  had  been  a  graceful,  beautiful  human  body  en- 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT  373 

closing  an  aspiring  soul.  He  saw  what  society  had  done  to 
break  and  twist  the  body;  what  society  had  neglected  to  do 
in  the  youth  of  the  soul — to  guide  and  environ  it  right — he 
saw  what  poverty  had  done  and  what  South  Harvey  had 
done  to  cheat  her  of  her  womanhood  even  when  she  had  tried 
to  rise  and  sin  110  more ;  he  remembered  how  the  court-made 
law  had  cheated  her  of  her  rightful  patrimony  and  cast  her 
into  the  streets  to  spread  the  social  cancer  of  her  trade ;  and 
he  had  no  answer.  If  he  could  have  put  vanity  into  her 
heart — the  vanity  which  he  feared  for  Grant  Adams,  he 
would  have  been  glad.  But  her  vanity  was  the  vanity  of 
motherhood ;  for  herself  she  had  spent  it  all.  Sc  he  left  her 
without  answering  her  question.  Money  was  all  he  could 
give  her  and  money  seemed  to  him  a  kind  of  curse.  Yet  he 
gave  it  and  gave  all  he  had. 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  gone,  Violet  fell  upon  the 
tumbled,  unmade  bed  and  cried  with  all  the  vehemence  of  her 
unrestrained,  shallow  nature.  For  she  was  sick  and  weary 
and  hungry.  She  had  given  her  last  dollar  to  a  policeman 
the  night  before  to  keep  from  arrest.  The  oldest  boy  had 
gone  to  school  without  breakfast.  The  little  children  were 
playing  in  the  street — they  had  begged  food  at  the  neighbors' 
and  she  had  no  heart  to  stop  them.  At  noon  when  little  Tom 
came  in  he  found  his  mother  sitting  before  a  number  of  paper 
sacks  upon  the  table  waiting  for  him.  Then  the  family  ate 
out  of  the  sacks  the  cold  meal  she  had  bought  at  the  grocery 
store  with  John  Dexter 's  money. 

That  night  Violet  shivered  out  into  the  cold  over  her  usual 
route.  She  was  walking  through  the  railroad  yards  in 
Magnus  when  suddenly  she  came  upon  a  man  who  dropped 
stealthily  out  of  a  dead  engine.  He  carried  something  shin 
ing  and  tried  to  slip  it  under  his  coat  when  he  saw  her.  She 
knew  he  was  stealing  brass,  but  she  did  not  care ;  she  called 
as  they  passed  through  the  light  from  an  arc  lamp : 

"Hello,  sweetheart — where  you  going?" 

The  man  looked  up  ashamed,  and  she  turned  a  brazen, 
painted  face  at  him  and  tried  to  smile  without  opening  her 
lips. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  the  man  caught  her  by  the  arm  and 
cried  • 


374  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

''God,  Violet — is  this  you — have  you — "  She  cut  him  off 
with : 

* '  Henry  Fenn — why — Henry — ' ' 

The  brass  fell  at  his  feet.  He  did  not  pick  it  up.  They 
stood  between  the  box  cars  in  speechless  astonishment.  It 
was  the  man  who  found  voice. 

1  'Violet— Violet,"  he  cried.  "This  is  hell.  I'm  a  thief 
and  you — " 

"Say  it — say  it — don't  spare  me/'  she  cried.  "That's 
what  I  am,  Henry.  It's  all  right  about  me,  but  how  about 
you,  how  about  you,  Henry?  This  is  no  place  for  you! 
Why,  you,"  she  exclaimed — "why,  you  are — 

"I'm  a  drunken  thief  stealing  brass  couplings  to  get  an 
other  drink,  Violet." 

He  picked  up  the  brass  and  threw  it  up  into  the  engine, 
still  clutching  her  arm  so  that  she  could  not  run  away. 

"But,  girl — "  he  cried,  "you've  got  to  quit  this — this  is 
no  way  for  you  to  live." 

She  looked  at  him  to  see  what  was  in  his  mind.  She 
broke  away,  and  scrambled  into  the  engine  cab  and  put  the 
brass  where  it  could  riot  fall  out. 

"You  don't  want  that  brass  falling  out,  and  them  tracing 
you  down  here  and  jugging  you — you  fool,"  she  panted  as 
she  climbed  to  the  ground. 

"Lookee  here,  Henry  Fenn,"  she  cried,  "you're  too  good 
a  man  for  this.  You've  had  a  dirty  deal.  I  knew  it  when 
she  married  you — the  snake;  I  know  it — I've  always  known 
it." 

The  woman's  voice  was  shrill  with  emotion.  Fenn  saw 
that  she  was  verging  on  the  hysterical,  and  took  her  arm  and 
led  her  down  the  dark  alley  between  the  cars.  The  man's 
heart  was  touched — partly  by  the  wreck  he  saw,  and  partly 
by  her  words.  They  brought  back  the  days  when  he  and  she 
had  seen  their  visions.  The  liquor  had  left  his  head,  and  he 
was  a  tremble.  He  felt  her  cold,  hard  hand,  and  took  it  in 
his  own  dirty,  shaken  hand  to  warm  it. 

'  *  How  are  you  living  ? "  he  asked. 

"This  way,"  she  replied.  "I  got  my  children — they've 
got  to  live  someway.  I  can't  leave  them  day  times  and  see 
'em  run  wild  on  the  streets — the  little  girls  need  me." 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT       375 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  as  they  hurried  past  an  arc 
lamp,  and  she  saw  tears  there. 

' '  Oh,  you  got  a  dirty  deal,  Henry — how  could  she  do  it  ? " 
cried  the  woman. 

He  did  not  answer  and  they  walked  up  a  dingy  street. 
A  car  came  howling  by. 

"Got  car  fare,"  he  asked.     She  nodded. 

"Well,  I  haven't,"  he  said,  "but  I'm  going  with  you." 

They  boarded  the  car.  They  were  the  only  passengers. 
They  sat  down,  and  he  said,  under  the  roar  of  the  wheels: 

"Violet — it's  a  shame — a  damn  shame,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  stand  for  it.  This  a  Market  Street  car?"  he  asked  the 
conductor  who  passed  down  the  aisle  for  their  fares.  The 
woman  paid.  When  the  conductor  was  gone,  Henry  con 
tinued  : 

"Three  kids  and  a  mother  robbed  by  a  Judge  who  knew 
better — just  to  stand  in  with  the  kept  attorneys  of  the  bar 
association.  He  could  have  knocked  the  shenanigan,  that 
killed  Hogan,  galley  west,  if  he'd  wanted  to,  and  no  Supreme 
Court  would  have  dared  to  set  it  aside.  But  no — the  kept 
lawyers  at  the  Capital,  and  all  the  Capitals  have  a  mutual 
admiration  society,  and  Tom  has  always  belonged.  So  he 
turns  you  and  all  like  you  on  the  street,  and  Violet,  before 
God  I'm  going  to  try  to  help  you." 

She  looked  at  the  slick,  greasy,  torn  stiff  hat,  and  the  dirty, 
shiny  clothes  that  years  ago  had  been  his  Sunday  best,  and 
the  shaggy  face  and  the  sallow,  unwashed  skin ;  and  she  re 
membered  the  man  who  was. 

The  car  passed  into  South  Harvey.  She  started  to  rise. 
"No,"  he  said,  stopping  her,  "you  come  on  with  me." 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked.  He  did  not  answer. 
She  sat  down.  Finally  the  car  turned  into  Market  Street. 
They  got  off  at  the  bank  corner.  The  man  took  hold  of 
the  woman's  arm,  and  led  her  to  the  alley.  She  drew 
back. 

He  said:  "Are  you  afraid  of  me — now,  Violet?"  They 
slinked  down  the  alley  and  seeing  a  light  in  the  back  room 
of  a  store,  Fenn  stopped  and  went  up  to  peer  in. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.     "He's  in." 

Fenn  tapped  on  the  barred  window  and  whistled  three 


376  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

notes.  A  voice  inside  cried,  "All  right,  Henry — soon's  I  get 
this  column  added  up." 

The  woman  shrank  back,  but  Fenn  held  her  arm.  Then 
the  door  opened,  and  the  moon  face  of  Mr.  Brotherton  ap 
peared  in  a  flood  of  light.  He  saw  the  woman,  without  recog 
nizing  her,  and  laughed : 

"Are  we  going  to  have  a  party?  Come  right  in,  Marianna 
— here's  the  moated  Grange,  all  right,  all  right." 

As  they  entered,  he  tried  to  see  her  face,  but  she  dropped 
her  head.  Fenn  asked,  "Why,  George — don't  you  know 
her?  It's  Violet — Violet  Mauling — who  married  Denny 
Hogan  who  was  killed  last  winter." 

George  Brotherton  looked  at  the  painted  face,  saw  the  bald 
attempt  at  coquetry  in  her  dress,  and  as  she  lifted  her  glazed, 
dead  eyes,  he  knew  her  story  instantly. 

For  she  wore  the  old,  old  mask  of  her  old,  old  trade. 

"You  poor,  poor  girl,"  he  said  gently.  Then  continued, 
"Lord — but  this  is  tough." 

He  saw  the  miserable  creature  beside  him  and  would  have 
smiled,  but  he  could  not.  Fenn  began, 

"George,  I  just  got  tired  of  coming  around  here  every 
night  after  closing  for  my  quarter  or  half  dollar ;  so  for  two 
or  three  weeks  I've  been  stealing.  She  caught  me  at  it ; 
caught  me  stripping  a  dead  engine  down  in  the  yards  by  the 
round  house." 

"Yes,"  she  cried,  lifting  a  poor  painted  face,  "Mr. 
Brotherton — but  you  know  how  I  happened  to  be  down 
there.  He  caught  me  as  much  as  I  caught  him  !  And  I'm 
the  worst — Oh,  God,  when  they  get  like  me — that's  the 
end  !" 

The  three  stood  silently  together.  Finally  Brotherton 
spoke:  "Well,"  he  drew  a  long  breath,  "well,  they  don't 
need  any  hell  for  you  two — do  they?"  Then  he  added, 
*  You  poor,  poor  sheep  that  have  gone  astray.  I  don't  know 
how  to  help  you." 

"Well,  George — that's  just  it,"  replied  Fenn.  "No  one 
can  help  us.  But  by  God's  help,  George,  I  can  help  her  ! 
There's  that  much  go  left  in  me  yet !  Don't  you  think  so, 
George?"  he  asked  anxiously.  "I  can  help  her." 

The  weak,  trembling  face  of  the  man  moved  George  Broth- 


THE  ANGELS  SHAKE  A  FOOT  377 

erton  almost  to  tears.  Violet's  instinct  saw  that  Brotherton 
could  not  speak  and  she  cried : 

"George— I  tell  Henry  he's  had  a  dirty  deal,  too — Oh,  such 
a  dirty  deal.  I  know  he 's  a  man — he  never  cast  off  a  girl — 
like  I  was  cast  off — you  know  how.  Henry's  a  man,  George 

a  real  man,  and  oh,  if  I  could  help  him — if  I  could  help 

him  get  up  again.  He 's  had  such  a  dirty  deal. 

Brotherton  saw  her  mouth  in  all  its  ugliness,  and  saw  as  he 
looked  how  tears  were  streaking  the  bedaubed  face.  She 
was  repulsive  beyond  words,  yet  as  she  tried  to  hold  back  her 
tears,  George  Brotherton  thought  she  was  beautiful. 

Fenn  found  his  voice.  "Now,  here,  George — it's  like  this: 
I  don't  want  any  woman;  I've  washed  most  of  that  monkey 
business  out  of  me  with  whisky — it's  not  in  me  any  more. 
And  I  know  she's  had  enough  of  men.  And  I've  brought 
her  here — we've  come  here  to  tell  you  that  part  is  straight — 
(jecent — square.  I  wanted  you  to  know  that — and  Violet 
would,  too— wouldn't  you,  Violet?"  She  nodded. 

"Now,  then,  George — I'm  her  man!  Do  you  under 
stand — her  man.  I'm  going  to  see  that  she  doesn't  have  to 
go  on  the  streets.  Why,  when  she  was  a  girl  I  used  to  beau 
her  around,  and  if  she  isn't  ashamed  of  a  drunken  thief — 
then  in  Christ's  name,  I'm  going  to  help  her." 

He  smiled  out  of  his  leaden  eyes  the  ghost  of  his  glittering, 
old,  self-deprecatory  smile.  The  woman  remembered  it,  and 
bent  over  and  kissed  his  dirty  hand.  She  rose,  and  put  her 
fingers  gently  upon  his  head,  and  sobbed: 

"Oh,  God,  forgive  me  and  make  me  worthy  of  this!" 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  When  the  woman  had  con 
trolled  herself  Fenn  said :  "What  I  want  is  to  keep  right  on 
sleeping  in  the  basement  here — until  I  can  get  ahead  enough 
to  pay  for  my  room.  I'm  not  going  to  make  any  scandal  for 
Violet,  here.  But  we  both  feel  better  to  talk  it  out  with 

you." 

They  started  for  the  back  door.  The  front  of  the  store 
was  dark.  Brotherton  saw  the  man  hesitate,  and  look  down 
the  alley  to  see  if  any  one  was  in  sight. 

"Henry,"  said  Brotherton,  "here's  a  dollar.  You  might 
just  as  well  begin  fighting  it  out  to-night.  You  go  to  the 
basement.  I'll  take  Violet  home." 


378  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  woman  would  have  protested,  but  the  big  man  said 
gently:  "No,  Violet — you  were  Denny  Hogan's  wife.  He 
was  my  friend.  You  are  Henry's  ward — he  is  my  friend. 
Let's  go  out  the  front  way,  Violet." 

When  they  were  gone,  and  the  lights  were  out  in  the  office 
of  the  bookstore,  Henry  Fenn  slipped  through  the  alley,  went 
to  the  nearest  saloon,  walked  in,  stood  looking  at  the  whiskey 
sparkling  brown  and  devilishly  in  the  thick-bottomed  cut 
glasses,  saw  the  beer  foaming  upon  the  mahogany  board, 
breathed  it  all  in  deeply,  felt  of  the  hard  silver  dollar  in  his 
pocket,  shook  as  one  in  a  palsy,  set  his  teeth  and  while  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes  stood  and  silently  counted  one  hun 
dred  arid  another  hundred ;  grinning  foolishly  when  the 
loafers  joked  with  him,  and  finally  shuffled  weakly  out  into 
the  night,  and  ran  to  his  cellar.  And  if  Mr.  Left's  theory 
of  angels  is  correct,  then  all  the  angels  in  heaven  had  their 
harps  in  their  hands  waving  them  for  Henry,  and  cheering 
for  joy! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A    SHORT    CHAPTER,    YET    IN    IT    WE    EXAMINE    ONE    CANVAS 
HEAVEN,    ONE   REAL   HEAVEN,   AND  TWO   SNUG   LITTLE   HELLS 


<  <»Y  •  ^HE  idea  of  hell,"  wrote  the  Peach  Blow  Philoso 
pher  in  the  Harvey  Tribune,  "is  the  logical  se- 
JL  quence  of  the  belief  that  material  punishments  must 
follow  spiritual  offenses.  For  the  wicked  go  unscathed  of 
material  punishments  in  this  naughty  world.  And  so  the 
idea  of  Heaven  is  a  logical  sequence  of  the  idea  that  only 
spiritual  rewards  come  to  men  for  spiritual  services.  Not 
that  Heaven  is  needed  to  balance  the  accounts  of  good  men 
after  death — not  at  all.  Good  men  get  all  that  is  coming  to 
them  here — whether  it  is  a  crucifixion  or  a  crown — that  makes 
no  difference ;  crowns  and  crosses  are  mere  material  counters. 
They  do  not  win  or  lose  the  game — nor  even  justly  mark  its 
loss  or  winning. 

"The  reason  why  Heaven  is  needed  in  the  scheme  of  a 
neighborly  man,"  said  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher  as  he 
stood  at  his  gate  and  reviewed  the  procession  of  pilgrims 
through  the  wilderness,  "is  this:  The  man  who  leads  a 
decent  life,  is  building  a  great  soul.  Obviously,  this  world 
is  not  the  natural  final  habitat  of  great  souls ;  for  they  occur 
here  sporadically — though  perhaps  more  and  more  frequently 
every  trip  around  the  sun.  But  Heaven  is  needed  in  any 
scheme  of  general  decency  for  decency's  sake,  so  that  the 
decent  soul  for  whose  primary  development  the  earth  was 
hung  in  the  sky,  may  have  a  place  to  find  further  usefulness, 
and  a  far  more  exceeding  glory  than  may  be  enjoyed  in  this 
material  dwelling  place.  So  as  we  grow  better  and  kinder  in 
this  world,  hell  sloughs  off  and  Heaven  is  more  real." 

There  is  more  of  this  dissertation — if  the  reader  cares  to 
pursue  it,  and  it  may  be  found  in  the  files  of  the  Harvey 
Tribune.  It  also  appears  as  a  footnote  to  an  article  by  an 
eminent  authority  on  Abnormal  Psychology  in  a  report  on 

379 


380  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Mr.  Left,  Vol.  XXXII,  p.  2126,  of  the  Report  of  the  Psycho 
logical  Association.  The  remarks  of  the  Peach  Blow  Philoso 
pher  credited  in  the  Report  of  the  Proceedings  above  noted, 
to  Mr.  Left,  appeared  in  the  Harvey  Tribune  Jan.  14,  1903. 
They  may  have  been  called  forth  by  an  editorial  in  the  Har 
vey  Times  of  January  9  of  that  same  year.  So  as  that  edi 
torial  has  a  proper  place  in  this  narrative,  it  may  be  set 
down  here  at  the  outset  of  this  chapter.  The  article  from 
the  Times  is  headed:  "A  Successful  Career"  and  it  fol 
lows  : 

"To-day  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  retires  from  ten  years 
of  faithful  service  as  district  judge  of  this  district.  He  was 
appointed  by  the  Governor  and  has  been  twice  elected  to 
this  position  by  the  people,  and  feeling  that  the  honor  should 
go  to  some  other  county  in  the  district,  the  Judge  was  not 
a  candidate  for  a  third  nomination  or  election.  During  the 
ten  years  of  his  service  he  has  grown  steadily  in  legal  and 
intellectual  attainments.  He  has  been  president  of  the  state 
bar  association,  delegate  from  that  body  to  the  National  Bar 
Association,  member  of  several  important  committees  in 
that  organization,  and  now  is  at  the  head  of  that  branch  of 
the  National  Bar  Association  organized  to  secure  a  more  strict 
interpretation  of  the  Federal  Constitution,  as  a  bulwark  of 
commercial  liberty.  Judge  Van  Dorn  also  has  been  selected 
as  a  member  of  a  subcommittee  to  draft  a  new  state  constitu 
tion  to  be  submitted  to  the  legislature  by  the  state  bar  asso 
ciation.  So  much  for  the  recognition  of  his  legal  ability. 

"As  an  orator  he  has  won  similar  and  enviable  fame. 
His  speech  at  the  dedication  of  the  state  monument  at  Vicks- 
burg  will  be  a  classic  in  American  oratory  for  years.  At  the 
Marquette  Club  Banquet  in  Chicago  last  month  his  oration 
was  reprinted  in  New  York  and  Boston  with  nattering  com 
ment.  Recently  he  has  been  engaged — though  his  term  of 
service  has  just  ended — in  every  important  criminal  action 
now  pending  west  of  the  Mississippi.  As  a  jury  lawyer  he 
has  no  equal  in  all  the  West. 

"But  while  this  practice  is  highly  interesting,  and  in  a 
sense  remunerative,  the  Judge  feels  that  the  criminal  prac 
tice  makes  too  much  of  a  drain  upon  his  mind  and  body,  and 
while  he  will  defend  certain  great  lumber  operators  arid  will 


ONE  HEAVEN  AND  TWO  LITTLE  HELLS     381 

appear  for  the  defense  in  the  famous  Yarborrough  murder 
case,  and  is  considering  accepting  an  almost  unbelievably 
large  retainer  in  the  Skelton  divorce  case  with  its  ramifica 
tions  leading  into  at  least  three  criminal  prosecutions,  and 
four  suits  to  change  or  perfect  certain  land  titles,  yet  this 
kind  of  practice  is  distasteful  to  the  Judge,  and  he  will 
probably  confine  himself  after  this  year  to  what  is  known  as 
corporation  practice.  He  has  been  retained  as  general  coun 
sel  for  all  the  industrial  interests  in  the  Wahoo  Valley.  The 
mine  operators,  the  smelter  owners,  the  cement  manufactur 
ers,  the  glass  factories  have  seen  in  Judge  Van  Dorn  a 
man  in  whom  they  all  may  safely  trust  their  interests — 
amicably  settling  all  differences  between  themselves  in  his 
office,  and  presenting  for  the  Wahoo  Valley  an  unbroken 
front  in  all  future  disputes — industrial  or  otherwise.  This 
arrangement  has  been  perfected  by  our  giant  of  finance,  Hon. 
Daniel  Sands  of  the  Traders'  State  Bank,  who  is,  as  every 
one  knows,  heavily  interested  in  every  concern  in  the  Valley 
— excepting  the  Independent  Coal  Company,  which  by  the 
way  has  preferred  to  remain  outside  of  the  united  commercial 
union,  and  do  business  under  its  own  flag — however  dark 
that  flag  may  be. 

"This  new  career  of  Judge  Van  Dorn  will  be  highly  grati 
fying  to  his  friends — and  who  is  there  who  is  not  his  friend  ? 

"Courteous,  knightly,  impetuous,  gallant  Tom  Van  Dorn? 
What  a  career  he  has  builded  for  himself  in  Harvey  and  the 
West, 

"Scorning  his  enemies  with  the  quiet  contempt  of  the  in 
tellectual  gladiator  that  he  is,  Tom  Van  Dorn  has  risen  in 
this  community  as  no  other  man  young  or  old  since  its  found 
ing.  His  spacious  home  is  the  temple  of  hospitality;  his 
magnificent  talent  is  given  freely,  often  to  the  poor  and 
needy  to  whom  his  money  flows  in  a  generous  stream  when 
ever  the  call  comes.  His  shrewd  investment  of  his  savings 
in  the  Valley  have  made  him  rich ;  his  beautiful  wife  and  his 
widening  circle  of  friends  have  made  him  happy — his  fine, 
active  brain  has  made  him  great. 

"The  Times  extends  to  the  Judge  upon  his  retirement 
from  the  bench  the  congratulations  of  an  admiring  com 
munity,  and  best  wishes  for  future  success." 


382  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Now  perhaps  it  was  not  this  article  that  inspired  the 
Peach  Blow  Philosopher.  It  may  have  been  another  item 
in  the  same  paper  hidden  away  in  the  want  column. 

''Wanted — All  the  sewing  and  mending,  quilt  patching, 
sheet  making,  or  other  plain  sewing  that  the  good  women 
of  Harvey  have  to  give  out.  I  know  certain  worthy  women 
with  families,  who  need  this  work.  Also  woodsawing  orders 
promptly  filled  by  competent  men  out  of  work.  I  will  bring 
work  and  the  workers  together.  H.  Fenn,  care  Brotherton 
Book  &  Stationery  Co.,  1127  Market  Street." 

Or  if  it  was  not  that  item,  perhaps  it  was  this  one  from 
the  South  Harvey  Derrick  of  January  7,  that  called  forth 
the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher's  remarks  on  Heaven: 

"Mrs.  Violet  Hogan  and  family  have  rented  the  rooms 
adjoining  Mrs.  Van  Dorn's  kindergarten.  Mrs.  Hogan  has 
made  arrangements  to  provide  ladies  of  South  Harvey  and 
the  Valley  in  general  with  plain  sewing  by  the  piece.  A 
day  nursery  for  children  has  been  fitted  up  by  our  genial 
George  Brotherton,  former  mayor  of  Harvey,  where  mothers 
sewing  may  leave  their  children  in  an  adjoining  room." 

Now  the  Heaven  of  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher  is  not 
gained  at  one  bound.  Even  the  painted,  canvas  Heaven 
of  Thomas  Van  Dorn  cost  him  something — to  be  exact,  $100, 
which  he  took  in  "stock"  of  the  Times  company — which  al 
ways  had  stock  for  sale,  issued  by  a  Price  &  Chanler  Gordon 
job  press  whenever  it  was  required.  And  the  negotiations 
for  the  Judge's  painted  Heaven  made  by  his  partner,  Mr. 
Joseph  Calvin,  of  the  renewed  and  reunited  firm  of  Van 
Dorn  &  Calvin,  were  not  without  their  painful  moments. 
As,  for  instance,  when  the  editor  of  the  Times  complained 
bitterly  at  having  it  agreed  that  he  would  have  to  mention 
in  the  article  the  Judge's  "beautiful  wife,"  specifically  and 
in  terms,  the  editor  was  for  raising  the  price  to  $150,  by 
reason  of  the  laughing  stock  it  would  make  of  the  paper, 
but  compromised  upon  the  promise  of  legal  notices  from 
the  firm  amounting  to  $100  within  the  following  six  months. 
Also  there  was  a  hitch  in  the  negotiations  hereinbefore  men 
tioned  when  the  Times  was  required  to  refer  to  the  National 
Bar  Association  meeting  at  all.  For  it  was  notorious  that 
the  Judge's  flourishing  signature  with  "and  wife"  had  been 


ONE  HEAVEN  AND  TWO  LITTLE  HELLS     383 

photographed  upon  the  register  of  a  New  York  Hotel  when 
he  attended  that  meeting,  whereas  every  one  knew  that  Mrs. 
Van  Dorn  was  in  Europe  that  summer,  and  the  photograph 
of  the  Judge's  beautifully  nourishing  signature  aforesaid 
was  one  of  the  things  that  persuaded  the  Judge  to  enter 
the  active  practice  and  leave  the  shades  and  solitudes  of 
the  bench  for  more  strenuous  affairs.  To  allude  to  the 
Judge's  wife,  and  to  mention  the  National  Bar  Association 
in  the  same  article,  struck  the  editor  of  the  Times  as  so 
inauspicious  that  it  required  considerable  persuasion  on  the 
part  of  the  diplomatic  Mr.  Calvin,  to  arrange  the  matter. 

So  the  Judge's  Heaven  bellied  on  its  canvas,  full  of  vain 
east  wind,  and  fooled  no  one — not  even  the  Judge,  least  of 
all  his  beautiful  wife,  who,  knowing  of  the  Bar  Association 
incident,  laughed  a  ribald  laugh.  Moreover,  having  aban 
doned  mental  healing  for  the  Episcopalian  faith  and  having 
killed  her  mental  healing  dog  with  caramels  and  finding  sur 
cease  in  a  white  poodle,  she  gave  herself  over  to  a  riot  of 
earth  thoughts — together  with  language  thereunto  appertain 
ing  of  so  plain  a  texture  that  the  Judge  all  but  limped  in  his 
strut  for  several  hours. 

But  when  the  strut  did  come  back,  and  the  mocking  echoes 
of  the  strident  tones  of  "his  beautiful  wife"  were  stilled  by 
several  rounds  of  Scotch  whisky  at  the  Club,  the  Judge 
went  forth  into  the  town,  waving  his  hands  right  and  left, 
bowing  punctiliously  to  women,  and  spending  an  hour  in 
police  court  getting  out  of  trouble  some  of  his  gambler 
friends  who  had  supported  him  in  politics. 

He  told  every  one  that  it  was  good  to  be  off  the  bench  and 
to  be  "plain  Tom  Van  Dorn"  again,  and  he  shook  hands  up 
and  down  Market  Street.  And  as  ' '  plain  Tom  Van  Dorn ' '  he 
sat  down  in  the  shop  of  the  Paris  Millinery  Company,  Mrs. 
Herdicker,  Prop.,  and  talked  to  the  amiable  Prop,  for  half 
an  hour — casting  sly  glances  at  the  handsome  Miss  Morton, 
who  got  behind  him  and  made  faces  over  his  back  for  Mrs. 
Herdicker's  edification. 

But  as  Mrs.  Herdicker,  Prop.,  made  it  a  point — and  kept 
it — never  to  talk  against  the  cash  drawer,  "plain  Tom  Van 
Dorn"  didn't  learn  the  truth  from  her.  So  he  pranced 
up  and  down  before  his  scenic  representation  of  Heaven  in 


384  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  Times,  and  did  not  know  that  the  whole  town  knew  that 
his  stage  Heaven  was  the  masque  for  as  hot  and  cozy  a 
little  hell  as  any  respectable  gentleman  of  middle  years  could 
endure. 

However  clear  he  made  it  to  the  public,  that  he  and  Mrs. 
Van  Dorn  were  passionately  fond  of  each  other ;  however  evi 
dent  he  intended  it  to  be  that  he  was  more  than  satisfied 
with  the  bargain  that  he  had  made  when  he  took  her,  and 
put  away  his  first  wife;  however  strongly  he  played  the 
card  of  the  gallant  husband  and  "dearied"  her,  and  however 
she  smirked  at  him  and  ' '  dawlinged ' '  him  in  public  when  the 
town  was  looking,  every  one  knew  the  truth. 

"We  may,"  says  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher  in  one  of 
his  dissertations  on  the  Illusion  of  Time,  "counterfeit  every 
thing  in  this  world — but  sincerity."  So  Judge  Thomas 
Van  Dorn — ''plain  Tom  Van  Dorn,"  went  along  Market 
Street,  and  through  the  world,  handing  out  his  leaden 
gratuities.  But  people  felt  how  greasy  they  were,  how 
heavy  they  were,  how  soft  they  were ;  and  threw  them  aside, 
and  sneered. 

As  for  the  Heaven  which  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher 
may  have  found  for  Henry  Fenn  and  Violet  Hogan,  it  was  a 
different  affair,  but  of  slow  and  uncertain  growth.  Henry 
Fenn  went  into  the  sewer  gang  the  day  after  he  found  Violet 
in  the  railroad  yards,  and  for  two  weeks  he  worked  ten  hours 
a  day  with  the  negroes  and  Mexicans  in  the  ditch.  It  took 
him  a  month  to  get  enough  money  ahead  to  pay  for  a  room. 
Leaving  the  sewer  gang,  he  was  made  timekeeper  on  a  small 
paving  contract.  But  every  day  he  sent  through  the  mails 
to  Violet  enough  to  pay  her  rent  and  feed  the  children — a 
little  sum,  but  all  he  could  spare.  He  did  not  see  her.  He 
did  not  write  to  her.  He  only  knew  that  the  money  he 
was  making  was  keeping  her  out  of  the  night,  so  he  bent 
to  his  work  with  a  will. 

And  at  night, — it  was  not  easy  for  Violet  to  stay  in  the 
house.  She  needed  a  thousand  little  things — or  thought  she 
did.  And  there  was  the  old  track  and  the  easy  money.  But 
she  knew  what  the  pittance  that  came  from  Henry  Fenn 
meant  to  him,  so  in  pride  and  in  shame  one  night  she  turned 
back  home  when  she  had  slipped  clear  to  the  corner  of  the 


ONE  HEAVEN  AND  TWO  LITTLE  HELLS     385 

street  with  her  paint  on.  When  she  got  home  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed  and  wept  like  a  child  in  anguish.  But 
the  next  night  she  did  not  even  touch  the  rouge  pot,  and 
avoided  it  as  though  it  were  a  poison.  Her  idea  was  the 
sewing  room.  She  wrote  it  all  out,  in  her  stylish,  angular 
hand  to  Mr.  Brotherton,  told  him  what  it  would  cost,  and  how 
she  believed  she  could  make  expenses  for  herself  and  help  a 
number  of  other  women  who,  like  her,  were  tempted  to  go 
the  wrong  road.  She  even  sent  him  five  spoons — the  last 
relic  of  the  old  Mauling  decency,  five  silver  spoons  dented 
with  the  tooth  marks  of  the  Mauling  children,  five  spoons 
done  up  in  pink  tissue  that  she  had  always  told  little  Ouida 
Hogan  should  come  to  her  some  day — she  sent  those  spoons 
to  Mr.  Brotherton  to  sell  to  make  the  start  toward  the  sewing 
room. 

But  Mr.  Brotherton  took  the  spoons  to  Mr.  Ira  Dooley's 
home  of  the  fine  arts  and  crafts,  and  then  and  there,  mount 
ing  a  lookout  stand,  addressed  the  crowd  through  the  smoke 
in  simple  but  effective  language,  showing  the  spoons,  telling 
the  boys  at  the  gaming  tables  that  they  all  knew  Denny  Ho- 
garrs  wife  and  how  about  her;  that  she  wanted  to  get  in 
right ;  that  the  spoons  were  sent  to  him  to  sell  to  the  highest 
and  best  bidder  for  cash  in  hand.  He  also  said  that  chips 
would  count  at  the  market  price,  and  lo !  he  got  a  hat  full  of 
rattly  red  and  white  and  blue  chips  and  jingly  silver  dollars 
and  a  wad  of  whispering  five-dollar  bills  big  enough  to 
cork  a  cannon.  He  went  back  to  Harvey,  spoons  and  all, 
considering  deeply  certain  statements  that  Grant  Adams 
had  made  about  the  presence  of  the  holy  ghost  in  every  hu 
man  heart. 

As  for  the  bright  particular  Heaven  of  Mr.  Fenn,  as  here 
inbefore  possibly  hinted  at  by  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher, 
these  are  its  specifications : 

Item  One.  Job  as  storekeeper  at  the  railroad  roundhouse, 
from  which  by  specific  order  of  the  master  mechanic  two 
hours  a  day  are  granted  to  Mr.  Fenn,  to  take  his  hat  in  his 
hand  and  go  marching  over  the  town,  knocking  at  doors  and 
soliciting  sewing  for  women,  and  wood-sawing  or  yard  or 
furnace  work  for  men ;  but 

Item  Two.     Being  a  generous  man,  Mr.  Fenn  is  up  before 


386  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

eight  for  an  hour  of  his  work,  and  stays  at  it  until  seven, 
and  thereby  gets  in  two  or  three  extra  hours  on  the  job,  and 
feels 

Item  Three.     That  he  is  doing  something  worth  while ; 

Item  Four.    Upon  the  first  of  the  month  he  has  nothing ; 

Item  Five.  Balancing  his  books  at  the  last  of  the  month 
he  has  nothing, 

Item  Six.  And  having  no  debt  he  is  happy.  But  speak 
ing  of  debt,  there  is 

Item  Seven.     In  Mr.  Fenn  's  room  a  collection  of  receipts : 

(a)  One  from  the  Midland  Railroad  Company  for  brass 
as  per  statement  rendered. 

(b)  One  from  the  Harvey  Transfer  Co.  for  one  box  of 
cutlery  marked  Wright  &  Perry,  and 

(c)  One — the  hardest  receipt  of  all  to  get — from  Martha 
Morton  for  six  chickens  as  per  account  rendered.     These 
receipts  hang  on  a  spindle  in  the  little  room.     Under  the 
spindle  is 

Item  Eight.  A  bottle  of  whisky — full  but  uncorked.  He 
is  in  his  room  but  little.  Sometimes  he  comes  in  late  at 
night,  and  does  not  light  the  lamp  to  avoid  seeing  the  bottle, 
but  plunges  into  bed,  and  covers  up  his  head  in  fear  and 
trembling.  On  the  day  when  the  Peach  Blow  Philosopher 
printed  his  view  on  Heaven,  Mr.  Fenn,  by  way  of  personal 
adornment,  had  purchased  of  Wright  &  Perry 

Item  Nine.  One  new  coat.  He  hoped  and  so  indicated 
to  the  firm,  to  be  able  to  afford  a  vest  in  the  spring  and 
perhaps  trousers  by  summer,  and  because  of  the  cutlery  tran 
saction  above  mentioned,  the  firm  indicated 

Item  Ten.  That  Mr.  Fenn's  credit  was  good  for  the  whole 
suit.  But  Mr.  Fenn  waved  a  proud  hand  and  said  he  had 

Item  Eleven.  No  desire  to  become  involved  in  the  devious 
ways  of  high  finance,  and  took  only  the  coat. 

But,  nevertheless,  no  small  part  of  his  Heaven  lies  in  the 
serene  knowledge  that  the  whole  suit  is  waiting  for  him, 
carefully  put  aside  by  the  head  of  the  house  until  Mr. 
Fenn  cares  to  call  for  it.  That  is  perhaps  a  material  Heaven 
but  it  is  a  part  of  Mr.  Fenn's  Heaven,  and  as  he  goes  about 
from  door  to  door  soliciting  for  sewing,  the  knowledge  that 
if  he  should  cease  or  falter  four  women  might  be  on  the 


ONE  HEAVEN  AND  TWO  LITTLE  HELLS      387 

street  the  next  night,  keeps  him  happy,  and  not  even  when 
he  was  county  attorney  or  in  the  real  estate  business  nor 
writing  insurance,  nor  disporting  himself  as  an  auctioneer 
was  Mr.  Fenn  ever  in  his  own  mind  a  person  of  so  much 
use  and  consequence.  So  his  Heaven  needs  no  east  wind 
to  belly  it  out.  Mr.  Fenn's  Heaven  is  full  and  fat  and 
prosperous — even  on  two  meals  a  day  and  in  a  three-dollar- 
a-month  room. 

And  now  that  we  may  balance  up  the  Heaven  account  in 
these  books,  we  should  come  to  some  conclusion  as  to  what 
Heaven  is.  Let  us  call  it,  for  the  sake  of  our  hypothesis,  the 
most  work  one  can  do  for  the  least,  self-interest,  and  let  it  go 
at  that  and  get  on  with  the  story.  For  this  story  has  to  do 
with  large  and  real  affairs.  It  must  not  dally  here  with 
the  sordid  affairs  of  a  lady  who  certainly  was  no  better  than 
she  should  be  and  of  a  gentleman  who  was  as  the  herein 
before  mentioned  receipts  will  show,  much  worse  than  he 
might  have  been. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  OLD  SPIDER  BEGINS  TO  DIVIDE  HIS  FLIES  WITH  OTHERS  AND 
GEORGE  BROTHERTON  IS  PUZZLED  TWICE  IN  ONE  NIGHT 

NOW  it  was  in  the  year  of  these  minor  conquests  when 
Henry  Fenn  and  Violet  Hogan  were  enjoying  their 
little  Heavens  that  great  things  began  to  stir  in 
Harvey  and  the  Wahoo  Valley.  In  May  a  young  gentleman 
in  a  high  hat  and  a  suit  of  exquisite  gray  twill  cut  with  a 
long  frock  coat,  appeared  at  the  Hotel  Sands — and  took  the 
bridal  suite  on  the  second  floor.  He  brought  letters  to  the 
Traders'  Bank  and  from  the  Bank  took  letters  to  the  smel 
ters,  and  with  a  notebook  in  hand  the  young  man  in  exqui 
site  gray  twill  went  about  for  three  or  four  days  smiling 
affably,  and  asking  many  questions.  Then  he  left  and  in 
due  course — that  is  to  say,  in  a  fortnight — Mr.  Sands  called 
the  managing  officials  of  all  the  smelters  into  his  back  room 
and  read  them  a  letter  from  a  New  York  firm  offering  to 
trade  stock  in  a  holding  company,  taking  over  smelters  of  the 
class  and  kind  in  the  Wahoo  Valley  for  the  stocks  and  bonds 
of  the  Harvey  Smelters  Company.  The  letterhead  was  so 
awe-inspiring  and  the  proposition  was  so  convincing  by  rea 
son  of  the  terror  inherent  in  the  letterhead  that  the  smelters 
went  into  the  holding  company,  and  thereafter  the  managing 
officials  who  had  been  men  of  power  and  consequence  in 
Harvey  became  clerks.  About  the  same  time  the  coal  prop 
erties  went  the  same  way,  and  the  cement  concerns  saw  their 
finish  as  individual  competing  concerns.  The  glass  fac 
tories  were  also  gobbled  up.  So  when  the  Fourth  of  July 
came  and  the  youngest  Miss  Morton,  under  great  protest,  but 
at  her  father's  stern  command,  wrapped  an  American  flag 
about  her — and  sang  the  "Star  Spangled  Banner"  to  the 
Veterans  of  Persifer  F.  Smith  Post  of  the  G.  A.  R.  in  Sands' 

388 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES       389 

Park,  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  in 
Harvey  was  somewhat  abridged. 

Daniel  Sands  felt  the  abridgement  more  than  any  one  else. 
For  a  generation  he  had  been  a  spider,  weaving  his  own 
web  for  his  own  nest.  All  his  webs  and  filaments  and  wires 
and  pipes  and  cables  went  out  and  brought  back  things  for 
him  to  dispose  of.  He  was  the  center  of  the  universe  for 
himself  and  for  Harvey.  He  was  the  beginning  and  the  end. 
His  bank  was  the  first  and  the  last  word  in  business  and  in 
politics  in  that  great  valley.  What  he  spun  was  his;  what 
he  drew  into  the  web  was  his.  When  he  invited  the  fly  into 
his  parlor,  it  was  for  the  delectation  of  the  spider,  not  to  be 
passed  on  to  some  other  larger  web  and  fatter  spider.  But 
that  day  as  he  sat,  a  withered,  yellow-skinned,  red-eyed, 
rattle-toothed,  old  man  with  a  palsied  head  that  never  stopped 
wagging,  as  he  sat  under  his  skull  cap,  blinking  out  at  a  fat, 
little  world  that  always  had  been  his  prey,  Daniel  Sands  felt 
that  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  end,  and  had  become  a  means. 

His  bank,  his  mines,  his  smelters,  even  his  municipal  utili 
ties,  all  were  slipping  from  under  his  control.  He  could  feel 
the  pull  of  the  rope  from  the  outside  around  his  own  foot. 
He  could  feel  that  he  was  not  a  generator  of  power.  He  was 
merely  a  pumping  station,  gathering  up  all  the  fat  of  the 
little  land  that  once  was  his,  and  passing  it  out  in  pipes  that 
ran  he  knew  not  where,  to  go  to  some  one  else — he  knew  not 
whom.  True,  his  commissions  came  back,  and  his  dividends 
came  back,  and  they  were  rich  and  sweet,  and  worth  while. 
But — he  was  shocked  when  he  found  courage  to  ask  it — if 
they  did  not  come  back,  what  could  he  do  ?  He  was  part  of 
a  great  web — a  little  filament  in  one  obscure  corner,  and  he 
was  spinning  a  fabric  whose  faintest  plan  he  could  not  con 
ceive. 

This  angered  him,  and  the  spider  spat  in  vain  rage.  The 
power  he  loved  was  gone ;  he  was  the  mere  shell  of  a  spider ; 
he  was  dead.  Some  man  might  come  into  the  bank  to-morrow 
and  take  even  the  semblance  of  his  power  from  him.  They 
might,  indeed,  shut  up  every  mill,  close  every  mine,  lock 
every  factory,  douse  the  fire  in  every  smelter  in  the  Wahoo 
Valley,  and  the  man  who  believed  he  had  opened  the  mills, 
dug  the  mines,  builded  the  factories  and  lighted  the  smelter 


390  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

fires  with  all  but  his  own  hands,  could  only  rage  and  fume, 
or  be  polite  and  pretend  it  was  his  desire. 

The  town  that  he  believed  that  he  had  made  out  of  sun 
shine  and  prairie  grass,  for  all  he  could  do,  might  be 
condemned  as  a  bat  roost,  and  the  wires  and  cables,  that  ran 
from  his  desk  all  over  the  Wahoo  Valley,  might  grow  rusty 
and  jangle  in  the  prairie  winds,  while  the  pipes  rotted  under 
the  sunflowers  and  he  could  only  make  a  wry  face.  Spiders 
must  have  some  instinctive  constructive  imagination  to  build 
their  marvelous  webs ;  surely  this  old  spider  had  an  imagina 
tion  that  in  Elizabeth 's  day  would  have  made  him  more  than 
a  minor  poet.  Yet  in  the  beginning  of  the  Twentieth  Cen 
tury  he  felt  himself  a  bound  prisoner  in  his  decaying  web. 
So  he  showed  his  blue  mouth,  and  red  eyelids  in  fury,  and 
was  silent  lest  even  his  shadow  should  find  how  impotent  a 
thing  he  was. 

But  he  knew  that  one  man  knew.  "How  about  your  poli 
tics  down  here?"  asked  the  affable  young  man  in  exquisite 
gray  twill,  when  he  closed  the  gas-works  deal.  And  Dan'l 
Sands  said  that  until  recently  he  and  Dr.  Nesbit  had  been 
cronies,  but  that  some  way  the  Doctor  had  been  getting  high 
notions,  and  hadn  't  been  around  the  bank  lately.  The  young 
man  in  the  exquisite  gray  twill  asked  a  few  questions,  cata 
logued  the  Doctor,  and  then  said: 

"This  man  Van  Dorn,  it  appears,  is  local  attorney  for  all 
the  mines  and  smelters — he  hasn  't  the  reform  bug,  has  he  ? " 

The  old  spider  grinned  and  shook  his  head. 

"All  right,"  said  the  polite  young  man  in  the  exquisite 
gray  twill,  as  he  picked  up  his  gray,  high  hat,  and  flicked  a 
speck  of  dust  from  his  exquisite  gray  frock  coat,  "I'll  take 
matters  of  politics  up  with  him." 

So  the  spider  knew  that  the  servant  had  been  put  over  the 
master,  and  again  he  opened  his  mouth  in  malice,  but  spoke 
no  word. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  formed  a 
strong  New  York  connection  that  stood  him  in  stead  in  after 
years.  For  the  web  that  the  old  spider  of  Market  Street 
had  been  weaving  all  these  years,  was  at  its  strongest  but  a 
rope  of  sand  compared  with  the  steel  links  of  the  chain  that 
was  wrapped  about  the  town,  with  one  end  in  the  Judge's 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES       391 

hand,  but  with  the  chain  reaching-  out  into  some  distant, 
mysterious  hawser  that  moved  it  with  a  power  of  which  even 
the  Judge  knew  little  or  nothing. 

So  he  was  profoundly  impressed,  and  accordingly  proud, 
and  added  half  an  inch  to  the  high-knee  action  of  his  strut. 
He  felt  himself  a  part  of  the  world  of  affairs — and  he  was 
indeed  a  part.  He  was  one  of  a  thousand  men  who,  whether 
they  knew  it  or  not,  had  been  bought,  body  and  soul — though 
the  soul  was  thrown  in  for  good  measure  in  the  Judge's  case 
— to  serve  the  great,  greedy  spider  of  organized  capital  at 
whatever  cost  of  public  welfare  or  of  private  faith.  He  was 
indeed  a  man  of  affairs — was  Thomas  Van  Dorn — a  part  of  a 
vast  business  and  political  cabal,  that  knew  no  party  and  no 
creed  but  dividends  and  still  more  dividends,  impersonal,  au 
tomatic,  soulless — the  materialization  of  the  spirit  of  com 
merce. 

And  strangely  enough,  just  as  Tom  Van  Dorn  worshiped 
the  power  that  bought  him,  so  the  old  spider,  peering  through 
the  broken,  rotting  meshes  of  what  was  once  his  web,  felt  the 
power  to  which  it  was  fastened,  felt  the  power  that  moved 
him  as  a  mere  pawn  in  a  game  whose  direction  he  did  not 
conceive;  and  Dan'l  Sands,  in  spite  of  his  silent  rage,  wor 
shiped  the  power  like  a  groveling  idolater. 

But  the  worm  never  lacks  for  a  bud ;  that  also  is  a  part  of 
God's  plan.  Thus,  while  the  forces  of  egoism,  the  powers 
of  capital,  were  concentrating  in  a  vast  organization  of  so 
cialized  individualism,  the  other  forces  and  powers  of  society 
which  were  pointing  toward  a  socialized  altruism,  were  form 
ing  also.  There  was  the  man  in  the  exquisite  gray  twill, 
harnessing  Judge  Van  Dorn  and  Market  Street  to  his  will; 
and  there  was  Grant  Adams  in  faded  overalls,  harnessing 
labor  to  other  wheels  that  were  grinding  another  grist. 
Slowly  but  persistently  had  Grant  Adams  been  forming 
his  Amalgamation  of  the  Unions  of  the  valley.  Slowly  and 
awkwardly  his  unwieldy  machinery  was  creaking  its  way 
round.  In  spite  of  handicaps  of  opposing  interests  among 
the  men  of  different  unions,  his  Wahoo  Valley  Labor  Coun 
cil  was  shaping  itself  into  an  effective  machine.  If  the 
shares  of  stock  in  the  mills  and  the  mines  and  the  smelt 
ers  all  ran  their  dividends  through  one  great  hopper,  so 


392  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  units  of  labor  in  the  Valley  were  connected  with  a 
common  source  of  direction.  God  does  not  plant  the  or 
ganizing  spirit  in  the  world  for  one  group ;  it  is  the  common 
heritage  of  the  time.  So  the  sinister  power  of  organized 
capital  loomed  before  Market  Street  with  its  terrible  threat 
of  extinction  for  the  town  if  the  town  displeased  organized 
capital ;  so  also  rose  in  the  town  a  dread  feeling  of  uneasiness 
that  labor  also  had  power.  The  personification  of  that  power 
was  Grant  Adams.  And  when  the  young  man  in  exquisite 
gray  twill  had  become  only  a  memory,  Tom  Van  Dorn 
squarely  faced  Grant  Adams.  Market  Street  was  behind  the 
Judge.  The  Valley  was  back  of  Grant.  For  a  time  there 
was  a  truce,  but  it  was  not  peace.  The  truce  was  a  time  of 
waiting ;  waiting  and  arming  for  battle. 

During  the  year  of  the  truce,  Nathan  Perry  was  busy. 
Nathan  Perry  saw  the  power  that  was  organizing  about  him 
and  the  Independent  mine  among  the  employers  in  the  dis 
trict,  and  intuitively  he  felt  the  resistlessness  of  the  power. 
But  he  did  not  shrink.  He  advised  his  owners  to  join  the 
combination  as  a  business  proposition.  But  his  advice  was 
a  dead  fly  fed  to  the  old  spider's  senile  vanity.  For  Daniel 
Sands  had  been  able  to  dictate  as  a  part  of  his  acceptance  of 
the  proposition,  this  one  concession:  That  the  Independent 
mine  be  kept  out  of  the  agreement.  Nathan  Perry  suspected 
this.  But  most  of  his  owners  were  game  men,  and  they  de 
cided  not  even  to  apply  for  admission  to  the  organization. 
They  found  that  the  young  man's  management  of  the  mine 
was  paying  well;  that  the  labor  problem  was  working  satis 
factorily  ;  that  the  safety  devices,  while  expensive,  produced 
a  feeling  of  good-will  among  the  men  that  was  worth  more 
even  in  dividends  than  the  interest  on  the  money. 

But  after  he  had  warned  his  employers  of  the  wrath  to 
come,  Nathan  Perry  did  not  spend  much  time  in  unavailing 
regret  at  their  decision.  He  was,  upon  the  whole,  glad  they 
had  made  it.  And  having  a  serious  problem  in  philology  to 
work  out — namely,  to  discover  whether  Esperanto,  Chinese 
or  Dutch  is  the  natural  language  of  man,  through  study  of 
the  conversational  tendencies  of  Daniel  Kyle  Perry,  the  young 
superintendent  of  the  Independent  mine  gave  serious  thought 
to  that  problem. 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES       393 

Then,  of  course,  there  was  that  other  problem  that  both 
ered  Nathan  Perry,  and  being  an  engineer  with  a  degree  of 
B.  S.,  it  annoyed  him  to  discover  that  the  problem  wouldn't 
come  out  straight.  Briefly  and  popularly  stated,  it  is  this: 
If  you  have  a  boiler  capacity  of  200  pounds  per  square  inch 
arid  love  a  girl  200  pounds  to  the  square  inch,  and  then  the 
Doctor  in  his  black  bag  brings  one  fat,  sweaty,  wrinkled 
baby,  and  you  see  the  girl  in  a  new  and  sweeter  light  than 
ever  before,  see  her  in  a  thousand  ways  rising  above  her 
former  stature  to  a  wonderful  womanhood  beyond  even  your 
dreams — how  are  you  going  to  get  more  capacity  out  of  that 
boiler  without  breaking  it,  when  the  load  calls  for  four 
hundred  pounds?  Now  these  problems  puzzled  the  young 
man,  living  at  that  time  in  his  eight-room  house  with  a  bath, 
and  he  sat  up  nights  to  work  them.  And  some  times  there 
were  two  heads  at  work  on  the  sums,  and  once  in  a  while 
three  heads,  but  the  third  head  talked  a  various  language, 
whose  mild  and  healing  sympathy  stole  the  puzzle  from  the 
problem  and  began  chewing  on  it  before  they  were  aware. 
So  Nathan  put  the  troubles  of  the  mine  on  the  hook  whereon 
he  hung  his  coat  at  night,  and  if  he  felt  uneasy  at  the  trend 
of  the  day 's  events,  his  uneasiness  did  not  come  to  him  at 
home.  He  had  heard  it  whispered  about — once  by  the  men 
and  once  in  a  directors'  meeting — that  the  clash  with  Grant 
Adams  was  about  to  come.  If  Nathan  had  any  serious  wish 
in  relation  to  the  future,  it  was  the  ardent  hope  that  the 
clash  would  come  and  come  soon. 

For  the  toll  of  death  in  the  Wahoo  Valley  was  cruel  and 
inexorable.  The  mines,  the  factories,  the  railroads,  the 
smelters,  all  were  death  traps,  and  the  maimed,  blind  and 
helpless  were  cast  out  of  the  great  industrial  hopper  like 
chaff.  Every  little  neighborhood  had  its  cripple.  From  the 
mines  came  the  blind — whose  sight  was  taken  from  them  by 
cheap  powder ;  from  the  railroad  yards  came  the  maimed — 
the  handless,  armless,  legless  men  who,  in  their  daily  tasks 
had  been  crushed  by  inferior  car  couplings;  the  smelters 
sent  out  their  sick,  whom  the  fumes  had  poisoned,  and 
sometimes  there  would  come  out  a  charred  trunk  that  had 
gone  into  the  great  molten  vats  a  man.  The  factories  took 
hands  and  forearms,  and  sometimes  when  an  accident  of 


394  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

unusual  horror  occurred  in  the  Valley,  it  would  seem  like  a 
place  of  mourning.  The  burden  of  all  this  bloodshed  and 
death  was  upon  the  laborers.  And  more  than  that, — the 
burden  of  the  widows  and  orphans  also  was  upon  labor. 
Capital  charged  off  the  broken  machinery,  the  damaged 
buildings,  the  worn-out  equipment  to  profit  and  loss  with  an 
easy  conscience,  while  the  broken  men  all  over  the  Valley, 
the  damaged  laborers,  the  worn-out  workers,  who  were  thrown 
to  the  scrap  heap  in  maturity,  were  charged  to  labor.  And 
labor  paid  this  bill,  chiefly  because  capital  was  too  greedy  to 
provide  safe  machinery,  or  sanitary  shops,  or  adequate  tools ! 

Nathan  Perry,  first  miner,  then  pit-boss  and  finally  super 
intendent,  and  always  member  of  Local  Miners'  Union  No. 
10,  knew  what  the  men  were  vaguely  beginning  to  see  and 
think.  When  some  man  who  had  been  to  court  to  collect 
damages  for  a  killed  or  crippled  friend,  some  man  who  had 
heard  the  Judge  talk  of  the  assumed  risk  of  labor,  some 
man  who  had  heard  lawyers  split  hairs  to  cheat  working 
men  of  what  common  sense  and  common  justice  said  was 
theirs,  when  some  such  man  cried  out  in  hatred  and  agony 
against  society,  Nathan  Perry  tried  to  counsel  patience,  tried 
to  curb  the  malice.  But  in  his  heart  Nathan  Perry  knew  that 
if  he  had  suffered  the  wrongs  that  such  a  man  suffered,  he 
too  would  be  full  of  wrath  and  class  hatred. 

Sometimes,  of  course,  men  rose  from  the  pit.  Foremen 
became  managers,  managers  became  superintendents,  super 
intendents  became  owners,  owners  became  rich,  and  society 
replied — "Look,  it  is  easy  for  a  man  to  rise."  Once  at 
lunch  time,  sitting  in  the  shaft  house,  Nathan  Perry  with  his 
hands  in  his  dinner  bucket  said  something  of  the  kind,  when 
Tom  Williams,  the  little  Welsh  miner,  who  was  a  disciple  and 
friend  of  Grant  Adams,  cried: 

"Yes — that's  true.  It  is  easy  for  a  man  to  rise.  It  was 
easy  for  a  slave  to  escape  from  the  South — comparatively 
easy.  But  is  it  easy  for  the  class  to  rise?  Was  it  easy  for 
the  slaves  to  be  free?  That  is  the  problem — the  problem  of 
lifting  a  whole  class — as  your  class  has  been  lifted,  young 
fellow,  in  the  last  century.  Why,  over  in  Wales  a  century 
ago,  a  mere  tradesman's  son  like  you — was — was  nobody. 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES       395 

The  middle  classes  had  nothing — that  is,  nothing  much. 
They  have  risen.  They  rule  the  world  now.  This  century 
must  see  the  rise  of  the  laboring  class ;  not  here  and  there  as 
a  man  who  gets  out  of  our  class  and  then  sneers  at  us,  and 
pretends  he  was  with  us  by  accident — but  we  must  rise  as  a 
class,  boy — don 't  you  see  ?  " 

And  so,  working  in  the  mine,  with  the  men,  Nathan  Perry 
completed  his  education.  He  learned — had  it  ground  into 
him  by  the  hard  master  of  daily  toil — that  while  bread  and 
butter  is  an  individual  problem  that  no  laborer  may  neglect 
except  at  his  peril,  the  larger  problems  of  the  conditions  un 
der  which  men  labor — their  hours  of  service,  their  factory 
surroundings,  their  shop  rights  to  work,  their  relation  to 
accidents  and  to  the  common  diseases  peculiar  to  any  trade — 
those  are  not  individual  problems.  They  are  class  problems 
and  must  be  solved — in  so  far  as  labor  can  solve  them  alone, 
not  by  individual  struggle  but  by  class  struggle.  So  Nathan 
Perry  came  up  out  of  the  mines  a  believer  in  the  union,  and 
the  closed  shop.  He  felt  that  those  who  would  make  the 
class  problem  an  individual  problem,  were  only  retarding 
the  day  of  settlement,  only  hindering  progress. 

Rumor  said  that  the  truce  in  the  Wahoo  Valley  was  near 
an  end.  Nathan  Perry  did  not  shrink  from  it.  But  Market 
Street  was  uneasy.  It  seemed  to  be  watching  an  approach 
ing  cyclone.  When  men  knew  that  the  owners  were  ready 
to  stop  the  organization  of  unions,  the  cloud  of  unrest  seemed 
to  hover  over  them.  But  the  clouds  dissolved  in  rumor. 
Then  they  gathered  again,  and  it  was  said  that  Grant  Adams 
was  to  be  gagged,  his  Sunday  meetings  abolished  or  that  he 
was  to  be  banished  from  the  Valley.  Again  the  clouds  dis 
solved.  Nothing  happened.  But  the  cloud  was  forever  on 
the  horizon,  and  Market  Street  was  afraid.  For  Market 
Street — as  a  street — was  chiefly  interested  in  selling  goods. 
It  had,  of  course,  vague  yearnings  for  social  justice — yearn 
ings  about  as  distinct  as  the  desire  to  know  if  the  moon  was 
inhabited.  But  as  a  street,  Market  Street  was  with  Mrs. 
Herdicker — it  never  talked  against  the  cash  drawer.  Mar 
ket  Street,  the  world  over,  is  interested  in  things  as  they  are. 
The  statuo  quo  is  God  and  laissez  faire  is  its  profit!  So 


396  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Market  Street  murmured,  and  buzzed — and  then  Market 
Street  also  organized  to  worship  the  god  of  things  as  they 
are. 

But  Mr.  Brotherton  of  the  Brotherton  Book  &  Stationery 
Company  held  aloof  from  the  Merchants'  Protective  Asso 
ciation.  Mr.  Brotherton  at  odd  times,  at  first  by  way  of 
diversion,  and  then  as  a  matter  of  education  for  his  growing 
business,  had  been  glancing  at  the  contents  of  his  wares. 
Particularly  had  he  been  interested  in  the  magazines.  More 
over,  he  was  talking.  And  because  it  helped  him  to  sell 
goods  to  talk  about  them,  he  kept  on  talking. 

About  this  time  he  affected  flowing  negligee  bow  ties,  and 
let  his  thin,  light  hair  go  fluffy  and  he  wrapped  rather  casu 
ally  it  seemed,  about  his  elephantine  bulk,  a  variety  of  loose, 
baggy  garb,  which  looked  like  a  circus  tent.  But  he  was  a 
born  salesman — was  Mr.  Brotherton.  He  plastered  litera 
ture  over  Harvey  in  carload  lots. 

One  day  while  Mr.  Brotherton  was  wrapping  up  "Little 
Women"  and  a  "Little  Colonel"  book  and  "Children  of 
the  Abbey"  that  Dr.  Nesbit  was  buying  for  Lila  Van  Dorn, 
the  Doctor  piped,  "Well,  George,  they  say  you're  getting 
to  be  a  regular  anarchist — the  way  you  're  talking  about  con 
ditions  in  the  Valley  ? ' ' 

"Not  for  a  minute,"  answered  Mr.  Brotherton.  "Why, 
man,  all  I  said  was  that  if  the  old  spider  kept  making  the 
men  use  that  cheap  powder  that  blows  their  eyes  out  and  their 
hands  off,  and  their  legs  off,  they  ought  to  unionize  and 
strike.  And  if  it  was  my  job  to  handle  that  powder  I'd  tie 
the  old  devil  on. a  blast  and  blow  him  into  hamburger."  Mr. 
Brotherton 's  rising  emotions  reddened  his  forehead  under 
his  thin  hair,  and  pulled  at  his  wind.  He  shook  a  weary 
head  and  leaned  on  a  show  case.  "But  I  say,  stand  by  the 
boys.  Maybe  it  will  make  a  year  of  bad  times  or  maybe 
two;  but  what  of  that?  It'll  make  better  times  in  the  end." 

"All  right,  George — go  in.  I  glory  in  your  spunk!" 
chirped  the  Doctor  as  he  put  Lila's  package  under  his  arm. 
"Let  me  tell  you  something,"  he  added,  "I've  got  a  bill  I'm 
going  to  push  in  the  next  legislature  that  will  knock  a  hole 
in  that  doctrine  of  the  assumed  risk  of  labor,  you  can  drive 
a  horse  through.  It  makes  the  owners  pay  for  the  accidents 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES      397 

of  a  trade,  instead  of  hiding  behind  that  theory,  that  a  man 
assumes  those  risks  when  he  takes  a  job." 

The  Doctor  put  his  head  to  one  side,  cocked  one  eye  and 
cried:  ''How  would  that  go?" 

"Now  you're  shoutin',  Doc.  Bust  a  machine,  and  the  com 
pany  pays  for  it.  Bust  a  man,  the  man  pays  for  it  or  his 
wife  and  children  or  his  friends  or  the  county.  That's  not 
fair.  A  man's  as  much  of  a  part  of  the  cost  of  production 
as  a  machine ! ' ' 

The  Doctor  toddled  out,  clicking  his  cane  and  whistling  a 
merry  tune  and  left  Mr.  Brotherton  enjoying  his  maiden 
meditations  upon  the  injustices  of  this  world.  In  the  midst 
of  his  meditations  he  found  that  he  had  been  listening  for 
five  minutes  to  Captain  Morton.  The  Captain  was  expound 
ing  some  passing  dream  about  his  Household  Horse.  Ap 
parently  the  motor  car,  which  was  multiplying  rapidly  in 
Harvey,  had  impressed  him.  He  was  telling  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  that  his  Household  Horse,  if  harnessed  to  the  motor  car, 
would  save  much  of  the  power  wasted  by  the  chains.  He  was 
dreaming  of  the  distant  day  when  motor  cars  would  be  used 
in  sufficient  numbers  to  make  it  profitable  for  the  Captain 
to  equip  them  with  his  power  saving  device. 

But  Mr.  Brotherton  cut  into  the  Captain's  musings  with: 
"You  tell  the  girls  to  wash  the  cat  for  I'm  coming  out  to 
night." 

"Girls? — huh — girls?"  replied  the  Captain  as  he  looked 
over  his  spectacles  at  Mr.  Brotherton.  "  'Y  gory,  man, 
what's  the  matter  with  me — eh?  I'm  staying  out  there  on 
Elm  Street  yet — what  say  ? "  And  he  went  out  smiling. 

When  the  Captain  entered  the  house,  he  found  Emma  get 
ting  supper,  Martha  setting  the  table  and  Ruth,  with  a  candy 
box  before  her  at  the  piano,  going  over  her  everlasting  ' '  Ah- 
ah-ah-ah-ahs"  from  "C  to  C"  as  Emma  called  it. 

Emma  took  her  father 's  hat,  put  it  away  and  said :  ' l  Well, 
father — what's  the  news?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  Captain,  with  some  show  of  delibera 
tion,  "a  friend  of  mine  down  town  told  me  to  tell  you  girls 
to  wash  the  cat  for  he'll  be  along  here  about  eight  o'clock." 

"Mr.  Brotherton,"  scoffed  Ruth.  "It's  up  to  you  two," 
she  cried  gayly  in  the  midst  of  her  eternal  journey  from 


398  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"C"  to  "C."  "He  never  wears  his  Odd  Fellows'  pin  un 
less  he's  been  singing  at  an  Odd  Fellows'  funeral,  so  that 
lets  me  out  to-night. ' ' 

"Well,"  sighed  Emma,  "I  don't  know  that  I  want  him. 
even  if  he  has  on  his  Shriner's  pin.  I  just  believe  I'll  go  to 
bed.  The  way  I  feel  to-night  I  ?m  so  sick  of  children  I  believe 
I  wouldn  ?t  marry  the  best  man  on  earth. ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  Emma,"  suggested  the  handsome 
Miss  Morton,  "if  you  feel  that  way  about  it  why,  I — " 

1  'Now  Martha — "  cried  the  elder  sister,  "can't  you  let  me 
alone  and  get  out  of  here?  I  tell  you,  the  superintendent 
and  the  principal  and  the  janitor  and  the  dratted  Calvin  kid 
all  broke  loose  to-day  and  I'm  liable  to  run  out  doors  and 
begin  to  jump  and  down  in  the  street  and  scream  if  you 
start  on  me. ' ' 

But  after  supper  the  three  Misses  Morton  went  upstairs, 
and  did  what  they  could  to  wipe  away  the  cares  of  a  long  and 
weary  day.  They  put  on  their  second  best  dresses — all  but 
Emma,  who  put  on  her  best,  saying  she  had  nothing  else  that 
wasn't  full  of  chalk  and  worry.  At  seven  forty-five,  they 
had  the  parlor  illuminated.  As  for  the  pictures  and  bric-a- 
brac — to-wit,  a  hammered  brass  flower  pot  near  the  grate, 
and  sitting  on  an  onyx  stand  a  picture  of  Richard  Harding 
Davis,  the  contribution  of  the  eldest  Miss  Morton's  callow 
youth,  also  a  brass  smoking  set  on  a  mission  table,  the  con 
tribution  of  the  youngest  Miss  Morton  from  her  first  choir 
money — as  for  the  pictures  and  bric-a-brac,  they  were  dusted 
until  they  glistened,  and  the  trap  was  all  set,  waiting  for 
the  prey. 

They  heard  the  gate  click  and  the  youngest  Miss  Morton 
said  quickly:  "Well,  if  he's  an  Odd  Fellow,  I  guess  I'll 
take  him.  But,"  she  sighed,  "I'll  bet  a  cooky  he's  an  Elk 
and  Martha  gets  him." 

The  Captain  went  to  the  door  and  brought  in  the  victim 
to  as  sweet  and  demure  a  trio  of  surprised  young  women 
and  as  patient  a  cat,  as  ever  sat  beside  a  rat  hole.  After  he 
had  greeted  the  girls — it  was  Ruth  who  took  his  coat,  and 
Martha  his  hat,  but  Emma  who  held  his  hand  a  second  the 
longest,  after  she  spied  the  Shriner's  pin — Mr.  Brotherton 
picked  up  the  cat. 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES      399 

"Well,  Epaminondas,"  he  puffed  as  he  stroked  the  animal 
and  put  it  to  his  cheek,  "did  they  take  his  dear  little  kitties 
away  from  him — the  horrid  things. ' ' 

This  was  Mr.  Brotherton 's  standard  joke.  Ruth  said  she 
never  felt  the  meeting  was  really  opened  until  he  had  teased 
them  about  Epaminondas'  pretended  kittens. 

For  the  first  hour  the  talk  ranged  with  obvious  punctility 
over  a  variety  of  subjects — but  never  once  did  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  approach  the  subject  of  politics,  which  would  hold  the 
Captain  for  a  night  session.  Instead,  Mr.  Brotherton  spun 
literary  tales  from  the  shop.  Then  the  Captain  broke  in  and 
enlivened  the  company  with  a  description  of  Tom  Van  Dorn  's 
new  automobile,  and  went  into  such  details  as  to  cams  and 
cogs  and  levers  and  other  mechanical  fittings  that  every  one 
yawned  and  the  cat  stretched  himself,  and  the  Captain  inci 
dentally  told  the  company  that  he  had  got  Van  Dorn's  per 
mission  to  try  the  Household  Horse  on  the  old  machine  be 
fore  it  went  in  on  the  trade. 

Then  Ruth  rose.  ' '  Why,  Ruth,  dear, ' '  said  Emma  sweetly, 
"where  are  you  going?" 

"Just  to  get  a  drink,  dear,"  replied  Ruth. 

But  it  took  her  all  night  to  finish  drinking  and  she  did 
not  return.  Martha  rose,  began  straightening  up  the  lit 
tered  music  on  the  piano,  and  being  near  the  door,  slipped 
out.  By  this  time  the  Captain  was  doing  most  of  the  talk 
ing.  Chiefly,  he  was  telling  what  he  thought  the  sprocket 
needed  to  make  it  work  upon  an  automobile.  At  the  hall 
door  of  the  dining  room  two  heads  appeared,  and  though 
the  door  creaked  about  the  time  the  clock  struck  the  half 
hour,  Mr.  Brotherton  did  not  see  the  heads.  They  were 
behind  him,  and  four  arms  began  making  signs  at  the  Cap 
tain.  He  looked  at  them,  puzzled  and  anxious  for  a  minute 
or  two.  They  were  peremptorily  beckoning  him  out. 
Finally,  it  came  to  him,  and  he  said  to  the  girls:  "Oh,  yes 
— all  right."  This  broke  at  the  wrong  time  into  something 
Mr.  Brotherton  was  saying.  He  looked  up  astonished  and 
the  Captain,  abashed,  smiled  and  after  shuffling  his  feet, 
backed  up  to  the  base  burner  and  hummed  the  tune  about 
the  land  that  was  fairer  than  day.  Emma  and  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  began  talking.  Presently,  the  Captain  picked  up  the 


400  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

spitting  cat  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  held  him  a  mo 
ment  under  his  chin.  "Well,  Emmy,"  he  cut  in,  interrupt 
ing  her  story  of  how  Miss  Carhart  had  told  the  principal  if 
"he  ever  told  of  her  engagement  before  school  was  out  in 
June,  she'd  just  die,"  with: 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  plenty  of  potatoes  for  the  hash?" 

And  not  waiting  for  answer,  he  marched  to  the  kitchen 
with  the  cat,  and  in  due  time,  they  heard  the  "Sweet  Bye 
and  Bye"  going  up  the  back  stairs,  and  then  the  thump, 
thump  of  the  Captain's  shoes  on  the  floor  above  them. 

The  eldest  Miss  Morton,  in  her  best  silk  dress,  with  her 
mother's  cameo  brooch  at  her  throat,  and  with  the  full, 
maidenly  ripeness  of  twenty-nine  years  upon  her  brow,  with 
her  hair  demurely  parted  on  said  brow,  where  there  was  the 
faintest  hint  of  a  wrinkle  coming — which  Miss  Morton  at 
tributed  to  a  person  she  called  "the  dratted  Calvin  kid,"— 
the  eldest  Miss  Morton,  'nair,  cameo,  silk  dress,  wrinkle,  the 
dratted  Calvin  kid  and  all,  did  or  did  not  look  like  a  siren, 
according  to  the  point  of  view  of  the  spectator.  If  he  was 
seeking  the  voluptuous  curves  of  the  early  spring  of  youth — 
no :  but  if  he  was  seeking  those  quieter  and  more  restful 
lines  that  follow  a  maiden  with  a  true  and  tender  heart,  who 
is  a  good  cook  and  who  sweeps  under  the  sofa,  yes. 

Mr.  Brotherton  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  desired.  He 
had  been  coming  to  the  Morton  home  on  various  errands 
since  the  girls  were  little  tots.  He  had  seen  Emma  in  her 
first  millinery  store  hat.  He  had  bought  Martha  her  first 
sled ;  he  had  got  Ruth  her  last  doll.  But  he  shook  his  head. 
He  liked  them  all.  And  then,  as  though  to  puzzle  him  more, 
he  had  noticed  that  for  two  or  three  years,  he  had  never  got 
more  than  two  consecutive  evenings  with  any  of  them — or 
with  all  of  them.  The  mystery  of  their  conduct  baffled  him. 
He  sometimes  wondered  indignantly  why  they  worked  him 
in  shifts?  Sometimes  he  had  Ruth  twice;  sometimes  Emma 
and  Martha  in  succession — sometimes  Martha  twice.  He 
like  them  all.  But  he  could  not  understand  what  system 
they  followed  in  disposing  of  him.  So  as  he  sat  and  toyed 
with  his  Shriner's  pin  and  listened  to  the  tales  of  a  tepid 
schoolmistress'  romance  that  Emma  told,  he  wondered  if 


THE  OLD  SPIDER  DIVIDES  HIS  FLIES      401 

after  all — for  a  man  of  his  tastes,  she  wasn't  really  the 
flower  of  the  flock. 

"You  know,  George,"  she  was  old  enough  for  that,  and 
at  rare  times  when  they  were  alone  she  called  him  George, 
"I'm  working  up  a  kind  of  sorrow  for  Judge  Van  Dorn— 
or  pity  or  something.  When  I  taught  little  Lila  he  was  al 
ways  sending  her  candy  and  little  trinkets.  Now  Lila  is  in 
the  grade  above  me,  and  do  you  know  the  Judge  has  taken 
to  walking  by  the  schoolhouse  at  recess,  just  to  see  her,  and 
walking  along  at  noon  and  at  night  to  get  a  word  with  her. 
He  has  put  up  a  swing  and  a  teeter-totter  board  on  the 
girls'  playgrounds.  This  morning  I  saw  him  standing,  gaz 
ing  after  her,  and  he  was  as  sad  a  figure  as  I  ever  saw.  He 
caught  me  looking  at  him  and  smiled  and  said : 

"  'Fine  girl,  Emma,'  and  walked  away." 

"Lord,  Emma,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton,  as  he  brought  his 
big,  baseball  hands  down  on  his  fat  knees.  "I  don't  blame 
him.  Don't  you  just  think  children  are  about  the  nicest 
things  in  this  world  ? ' ' 

Emma  was  silent.  She  had  expressed  other  sentiments 
too  recently.  Still  she  smiled.  And  he  went  on : 

"Oh,  wow! — they're  mighty  fine  to  have  around." 

But  Mr.  Brotherton  was  restless  after  that,  and  when  the 
clock  was  striking  ten  he  was  in  the  hall.  He  left  as  he  had 
gone  for  a  dozen  years.  And  the  young  woman  stood  watch 
ing  him  through  the  glass  of  the  door,  a  big,  strong,  hand 
some  man — who  strode  down  the  walk  with  clicking  heels  of 
pride,  and  she  turned  away  sadly  and  hurried  upstairs. 

"Martha,"  she  asked,  as  she  took  down  her  hair,  "was  it 
ordained  in  the  beginning  of  the  world  that  all  school  teach 
ers  would  have  to  take  widowers  ? ' ' 

And  without  hearing  the  answer,  she  put  out  the  light. 

Mr.  Brotherton,  stalking — not  altogether  unconsciously 
down  the  walk,  turned  into  the  street  and  as  he  went  down 
the  hill,  he  was  aware  that  a  boy  was  overtaking  him.  He 
let  the  boy  catch  up  with  him.  "Oh,  Mr.  Brotherton,"  cried 
the  boy,  "  I  've  been  looking  for  you ! ' ' 

"Well,  here  I  am;  what's  the  trouble?" 

"Grant  sent  me,"  returned  the  boy,  "to  ask  you  if  he 


402  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

could  see  you  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  at  the 
store?" 

Brotherton  looked  the  boy  over  and  exclaimed : 

"Grant?"  and  then,  "-Oh— why,  Kenyon,  I  didn't  know 
you.  You  are  certainly  that  human  bean-stalk,  son.  Let's 
take  a  look  at  you.  Well,  say — "  Mr.  Brotherton  stopped 
and  backed  up  and  paused  for  dramatic  effect.  Then  he 
exploded:  "Say,  boy,  if  I  had  you  in  an  olive  wood  frame, 
I  could  get  $2.75  or  $3.00  for  you  as  Narcissus  or  a  boy 
Adonis !  You  surely  are  the  angel  child ! ' ' 

The  boy's  great  black  eyes  shone  up  at  the  man  with 
something  wistful  and  dream-like  in  them  that  only  his 
large,  sensitive  mouth  seemed  to  comprehend.  For  the  rest 
of  the  child's  face  was  boy — boy  in  early  adolescence.  The 
boy  answered  simply : 

"Grant  said  to  tell  you  that  he  expects  the  break  to 
morrow  and  is  anxious  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Brotherton  looked  at  the  boy  again — the  eyes  haunted 
the  man — he  could  not  place  them,  yet  they  were  familiar  to 
him. 

"Where  you  been,  kid?"  he  asked.  "I  thought  you  were 
in  Boston,  studying. ' ' 

"It's  vacation,  sir,"  answered  Kenyoii. 

Brotherton  pulled  the  lad  up  under  the  next  corner  elec 
tric  lamp  and  again  gazed  at  him.  Then  Mr.  Brotherton 
remembered  where  he  had  seen  the  eyes.  The  second  Mrs. 
Van  Doru  had  them.  This  bothered  the  man. 

The  eyes  of  the  boy  that  flashed  so  brightly  into  Mr. 
Brotherton 's  eyes,  certainly  puzzled  him  and  startled  him. 
But  not  so  much  as  the  news  the  boy  carried.  For  then  Mr. 
Brotherton  knew  that  Market  Street  would  be  buzzing  in 
the  morning  and  that  the  cyclone  clouds  that  were  lowering, 
soon  would  break  into  storm. 


CHAPTER  XXXYI 

A  LONG  CHAPTER  BUT  A  BUSY  ONE,  IN  WHICH  KENYON  ADAMS 

AND  HIS  MOTHER  HAVE  A  STRANGE  MEETING,  AND  LJLA 

VAN  DORN  TAKES  A  NIGHT  RIDE 

THE  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  Grant  Adams  came 
hurrying  into  Brotherton's  store.  As  he  strode 
down  the  long  store  room,  Brotherton  thought  that 
Grant  in  his  street  clothes  looked  less  of  a  person  than 
Grant  in  his  overalls.  But  the  big  man  rose  like  a  frisky 
mountain  in  earthquake  and  called: 

"  Hello  there,  Danton — going  to  shake  down  the  furnace 
fires  of  revolution  this  morning,  I  understand." 

Grant  stared  at  Brotherton.  Solemnly  he  said,  as  he  stood 
an  awkward  moment  before  sitting.  "Well,  Mr.  Brotherton, 
the  time  has  come,  when  I  must  fight.  To-day  is  the  day!'7 

"Yes,"  replied  Brotherton,  "I  heard  a  few  minutes  ago 
that  they  were  going  to  run  you  out  of  the  district  to-day. 
The  meeting  in  the  Commercial  Club  rooms  is  being  called 
now. ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Grant,  "and  I've  been  asked  to  appear  before 
them." 

"I  guess  they  are  going  to  try  and  bluff  you  out,  Grant," 
said  Brotherton. 

"I  got  wind  of  it  last  night,"  said  Grant,  "when  they 
nailed  up  the  last  hall  in  the  Valley  against  me.  One  after 
another  of  the  public  halls  has  been  closed  to  me  during  the 
past  year.  But  to-day  is  to  be  our  first  public  rally  of  the 
delegates  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  Trades  Council.  We  have 
rented  office  rooms  in  the  second  floor  of  the  Vanderbilt 
House  in  South  Harvey,  and  are  coming  out  openly  as  an 
established  labor  organization,  ready  for  business  in  the 
Valley,  and  we  are  going  to  have  a  big  meeting — somewhere 
— I  don't  know  where  now,  but  somewhere — "  his  face 
turned  grim  and  a  fanatic  flame  lighted  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

403 


404  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

' '  Somewhere  the  delegates  of  the  Council  will  meet  to-night, 
and  I  shall  talk  to  them— or— " 

"Soh,  boss — soh,  boss — don't  get  excited,"  counseled  Mr. 
Brotherton.  ''They'll  blow  off  a  little  steam  in  the  meeting 
this  morning,  and  then  you  go  on  about  your  business. ' ' 

"But  you  don't  know  what  I  know,  George  Brotherton," 
protested  Grant  as  he  leaned  forward.  "I  have  converted 
enough  spies — oh,  no — not  counting  the  spies  who  were  con 
verted  merely  to  scare  me — but  enough  real  spies  to  know 
that  they  mean  business!"  He  stopped,  and  sitting  back  in 
his  chair  again,  he  said  grimly,  "And  so  do  I — I  shall  talk 
to  the  men  to-night,  or — " 

"All  right,  son ;  you'll  talk  or  'the  boy,  oh,  where  was  he?' 
I'll  tell  you  what,"  cried  Mr.  Brotherton;  "you'll  fool 
around  with  the  buzz  saw  till  you'll  get  killed.  Now,  look 
here,  Grant — I'm  for  your  revolution,  and  six  buckets  of 
blood.  But  you  can't  afford  to  lose  'em!  You're  dead 
right  about  the  chains  of  slavery  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
but  don't  get  too  excited  about  it.  You  live  down  there 
alone  with  your  father  and  he  is  talking  to  spooks,  and  you're 
talking  to  yourself;  and  you've  got  a  kind  of  ingrown  idea 
of  this  thing.  Give  the  Lord  a  little  time,  and  he  '11  work  out 
this  pizen  in  our  social  system.  I'll  help  you,  and  maybe 
before  long  Doc '11  see  the  light  and  help  you;  but  now  you 
need  a  regulator.  You  ought  to  have  a  wife  and  about  six 
children  to  hook  you  up  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature! 
And  see  here,  Grant,"  Mr.  Brotherton  dropped  a  weighty 
hand  on  Grant's  shoulder,  "if  you  don't  be  careful  you'll 
furnish  the  ingredients  of  a  public  funeral,  and  where  will 
your  revolution  be  then — and  the  boys  in  the  Valley  and 
your  father  and  Kenyon?" 

While  Brotherton  was  speaking,  Grant  sat  with  an  im 
passive  face.  But  when  Kenyon 's  name  was  uttered  he 
looked  up  quickly  and  answered : 

"That  is  why  I  am  here  this  morning;  it's  about  Kenyon. 
George  Brotherton,  that  boy  is  more  than  life  to  me."  The 
fanatic  light  was  gone  from  Grant's  eyes,  and  the  soft  glow 
in  them  revealed  a  man  that  George  Brotherton  had  not  seen 
in  years.  "Mr.  Brotherton,"  continued  Grant,  "father  is 
getting  too  old  to  do  much  for  Kenyon.  The  Nesbits  have 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     405 

borne  practically  all  the  expense  of  educating  him.  But  the 
Doctor  won't  always  be  here."  Again  he  hesitated.  Then 
he  went  ahead  as  if  he  had  decided  for  the  last  time. 
"George  Brotherton,  if  I  should  be  snuffed  out,  I  want  you 
to  look  after  Kenyon — if  ever  he  needs  it.  You  have  no 
one,  and — "  Grant  leaned  forward  and  grasped  Brotherton 's 
great  hands  and  cried,  ' '  George  Brotherton,  if  you  knew  the 
gold  in  that  boy's  heart,  and  what  he  can  do  with  a  violin, 
and  how  his  soul  is  unfolding  under  the  spell  of  his  music. 
He's  so  dumb  and  tongue-tied  and  unformed  now ;  and  yet — " 

"Well — say!"  It  came  out  of  Mr.  Brotherton  with  a 
crash  like  a  falling  tree,  "Grant — well,  say!  Through  sick 
ness  and  health,  for  better  or  for  worse,  till  death  do  us 
part — if  that  will  satisfy  you."  He  put  his  big  paw  over 
and  grabbed  Grant's  steel  hook  and  jerked  him  to  his  feet. 
"You've  sure  sold  Kenyon  into  bondage.  When  I  saw  him 
last  night — honest  to  God,  man — I  thought  I'd  run  into  a 
picture  roaming  around  out  of  stock  without  a  frame !  Him 
and  me  together  can  do  Ariel  and  Prospero  without  a  scratch 
of  make-up."  Grant  beamed,  but  when  Brotherton  ex 
claimed  as  an  afterthought,  "Say,  man,  what  about  that  boy's 
eyes?"  Grant's  features  mantled  and  the  old  grim  look 
overcast  his  face,  as  Brotherton  went  on:  "Why,  them  eyes 
would  make  a  madonna's  look  like  fried  eggs!  Where  did 
he  get  'em — they're  not  Sands  and  they're  not  Adams.  He 
must  take  back  to  some  Peri  that  blew  into  Massachusetts 
from  an  enchanted  isle."  Brotherton  saw  that  he  was  an 
noying  Grant  in  some  way.  Often  he  realized  that  his  lan 
guage  was  not  producing  the  desired  effect;  so  he  veered 
about  and  said  gently,  "You're  not  in  any  danger,  Grant; 
but  so  long  as  I'm  wearing  clothes  that  button  up  the  front 
— don't  worry  about  Kenyon,  I'll  look  after  him." 

Five  minutes  later,  Grant  was  standing  in  the  front  door 
of  Brotherton 's  store,  gazing  into  Market  Street.  He  saw 
Daniel  Sands  and  Kyle  Perry  and  Tom  Van  Dorn  walking 
out  of  one  store  and  into  the  next.  He  saw  John  Kollaiider 
in  a  new  blue  soldier  uniform  stalking  through  the  street. 
He  saw  the  merchants  gathering  in  small,  volatile  groups 
that  kept  forming  and  re-forming,  and  he  knew  that  Mr. 
Brotherton 's  classic  language  was  approximately  correct 


406  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

when  he  said  there  was  a  hen  on.     Grant  eyed  the  crowd  that 
was  hurrying  past  him  to  the  meeting  like  a  hungry  hound 
watching  a  drove  of  chickens.     Finally,  when  Grant  saw  that 
the  last  straggler  was  in  the  hall,  he  turned  and  stalked 
heavily  to  the  Commercial  Club  rooms,  yet  he  moved  with 
the  self-consciousness  of  one  urged  by  a  great  purpose.     His 
head  was  bent  in  reflection.     His  hand  held  his  claw  behind 
him,  and  his  shoulders  stooped.     He  knew  his  goal,  but  the 
way  was  hard  and  uncertain,  and  he  realized  the  peril  of 
a  strategic  misstep  at  the  outset.     Heavily  he  mounted  the 
steps  to  the  hall,  entered,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  rear.     He 
sat  with  his  head  bowed  and  his  gaze  on  the  floor.     He  was 
aware  that  Judge  Van  Dorn  was  speaking;  but  what  the 
Judge  was  saying  did  not  interest  Grant.     His  mind  seemed 
aloof  from  the  proceedings.     Suddenly  what  he  had  pre 
pared  to  say  slipped  out  of  his  consciousness  completely,  as 
he  heard  the  Judge  declare,  "We  deem  this,  sir,  a  life  and 
death  struggle  for  our  individual  liberties ;  a  life  and  death 
struggle  for  our  social  order;  a  life  and  death  struggle  for 
our  continuance  to  exist  as  individuals."     There  was  a  long 
repetition  of  the  terms  "life  and  death."     They  appealed  to 
some  tin-pan  rhythmic  sense  in  the  Judge's  oratorical  mind. 
But  the  phrase  struck  fire  in  Grant  Adams's  heart.     Life  and 
death,  life  and  death,  rang  through  his  soul  like  a  clamor  of 
bells.     "We  have  given  our  all,"  bellowed  the  Judge,  "to 
make  this  Valley  an  industrial  hive,  where  labor  may  find 
employment — all  of  our  savings,  all  of  our  heritage  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  organizing  skill,  and  we  view  this  life  and  death  strug 
gle  for  its  perpetuity — "     But  all  Grant  Adams  heard  of 
that  sentence  was  "life  and  death,"  as  the  great  bell  of  his 
soul  clanged  its  alarm.     "We  are  a  happy,  industrial  fam 
ily,"  intoned  the  Judge,  the  suave  Judge,  who  was  some 
thing  more  than  owner;   who  was  Authority  without  re 
sponsibility,  who  was  the  voice  of  the  absentee  master;  the 
voice,  it  seemed  to  Grant,  of  an  enchanted  peacock  squawking 
in  the  garden  of  a  dream;  the  voice  that  cried:  "and  to 
him  who  would  overthrow  all  this  contentment,  all  this  ad 
mirable  adjustment  of  industrial  equilibrium  we  offer  the 
life  and  death  alternative  that  is  given  to  him  who  would 
violate  a  peaceful  home. ' ' 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     407 

But  all  that  Grant  Adams  sensed  of  his  doom  in  the 
Judge's  pronouncement  was  the  combat  of  death  with  life. 
Life  and  death  were  meeting  for  their  eternal  struggle,  and 
as  the  words  resounded  again  and  again  in  the  Judge's  or 
atory,  there  rushed  into  Grant  Adams's  mind  the  phrase, 
"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,"  and  he  knew  that  in 
the  life  and  death  struggle  for  progress,  for  justice,  for  a 
more  abundant  life  on  this  planet,  it  would  be  finally  life 
and  not  death  that  would  win. 

As  he  sat  blindly  glaring  at  the  floor,  there  may  have 
stolen  into  his  being  some  ember  from  the  strange  flame 
burning  about  our  earth,  whose  touch  makes  men  mad  with 
the  madness  that  men  have,  who  come  from  the  wildernesses 
of  life,  from  the  lowly  walks  and  waste  places — the  madness 
of  those  who  feed  on  locusts  and  wild  honey;  who,  like  St. 
Francis  and  Savonarola,  go  forth  on  hopeless  quests  for  the 
unattainable  ideal,  or  like  John  Brown,  who  burn  in  the 
scorching  flame  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools  and  the  courts, 
and  for  one  glorious  day  shine  forth  with  their  burning 
lives  a  beacon  by  which  the  world  is  lighted  to  its  own  sad 
shame. 

Grant  never  remembered  what  he  said  by  way  of  introduc 
tion  as  he  stood  staring  at  the  crowd.  It  was  a  different 
crowd  from  audiences  he  knew.  To  Grant  it  was  the  market 
place;  merchants,  professional  men;  clerks,  bankers, — well- 
dressed  men,  with  pale,  upturned  faces  stretched  before  him 
to  the  rear  of  the  hall.  It  was  all  black  and  white,  and  as 
his  soul  cried  "life  and  death"  back  of  his  conscious  speech, 
the  image  came  to  him  that  all  these  pale,  black-clad  figures 
were  in  their  shrouds,  and  that  he  was  talking  to  the  visible 
body  of  death — laid  out  stiffly  before  him. 

What  answer  he  made  to  Van  Dorn  does  not  matter. 
Grant  Adams  could  not  recall  it  when  he  had  finished.  But 
ever  as  he  spoke  through  his  being  throbbed  the  electrical 
beat  of  the  words,  "I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life." 
And  he  was  exultant  in  the  consciousness  that  in  the  struggle 
of  "life  and  death,"  life  would  surely  win.  So  he  stood  and 
spoke  with  a  tongue  of  flame. 

"If  you  have  given  all — and  you  have,  we  also  have  given 
all.  But  our  all  is  more  vitally  our  all — than  yours;  for 


408  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

it  is  Gur  bodies,  our  food  and  clothing;  our  comfortable 
homes;  our  children's  education,  our  wives'  strength;  our 
babies'  heritage;  many  of  us  have  indeed  given  our 
sons'  integrity  and  our  daughters'  virtue.  All  these  we 
have  put  into  the  bargain  with  you.  We  have  put  them 
into  the  common  hopper  of  this  industrial  life,  and  you  have 
taken  the  grain  and  we  the  chaff.  It  is  indeed  a  life 
and  death  struggle.  And  this  happy  family,  this  well-bal 
anced  industrial  adjustment,  this  hell  of  labor  run  through 
your  mills  like  grist,  this  is  death;  death  is  the  name 
for  all  your  wicked  system,  that  shrinks  and  cringes  before 
God's  ancient  justice.  'I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life' 
was  not  spoken  across  the  veil  that  rises  from  the  grave. 
It  was  spoken  for  men  here  in  the  flesh  who  shall  soon  come 
into  a  more  abundant  life.  Life  and  death,  life  and  death 
are  struggling  here  this  very  hour,  and  you — you,"  he  leaned 
forward  shaking  his  steel  claw  in  their  faces,  * '  you  and  your 
greedy  system  of  capital  are  the  doomed;  you  are  death's 
embodiment." 

Then  came  the  outburst.  All  over  the  house  rose  cries. 
Men  jumped  from  their  chairs  and  waved  their  arms.  But 
Judge  Van  Dorii  quieted  them.  He  knew  that  to  attack 
Grant  Adams  physically  at  that  meeting  would  inflame  the 
man 's  followers  in  the  Valley.  So  he  pounded  the  gavel  for 
quiet.  To  Adams  he  thundered,  ''Sit  down,  you  villain!" 
Still  the  crowd  hissed  and  jeered.  A  great  six-footer  in  new 
blue  overalls,  whom  Grant  knew  as  one  of  the  recent  spies, 
one  of  the  sluggers  sent  to  the  Valley,  came  crowding  to 
the  front  of  the  room.  But  Judge  Van  Dorn  nodded  him 
back.  When  the  Judge  had  stilled  the  tumult,  he  said  in  his 
sternest  judicial  manner,  "Now,  Adams — we  have  heard 
enough  of  you.  Leave  this  district.  Get  out  of  this  Valley. 
You  have  threatened  us ;  we  shall  not  protect  you  in  life  or 
limb.  You  are  given  two  hours  to  leave  the  Valley,  and  after 
that  you  stay  here  at  your  own  peril.  If  you  try  to  hold 
your  labor  council,  don't  ask  us,  whom  you  have  scorned,  to 
surround  you  with  the  protection  of  the  society  you  would 
overthrow*  in  bloodshed.  Now,  go — get  out  of  here,"  he 
cried,  with  all  the  fire  and  fury  that  an  outraged  re 
spectability  could  muster.  But  Grant,  turning,  twisted  his 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  BIDE     409 

hook  in  the  Judge 's  coat,  held  him  at  arm 's  length,  and  lean 
ing  toward  the  crowd,  with  the  Judge  all  but  dangling  from 
his  steel  arm,  cried:  "I  shall  speak  in  South  Harvey  to 
night.  This  is  indeed  a  life  and  death  struggle,  and  I  shall 
preach  the  gospel  of  life.  Life,"  he  cried  with  a  trumpet 
voice,  "life — the  life  of  society,  and  its  eternal  resurrection 
out  of  the  forces  of  life  that  flow  from  the  everlasting  divine 
spring ! ' ' 

After  the  crowd  had  left  the  hall,  Grant  hurried  toward 
the  street  leading  to  South  Harvey.  As  he  turned  the 
corner,  the  man  whom  Grant  had  seen  in  the  hall  met  him, 
the  man  whom  Grant  recognized  as  a  puddler  in  one  of  the 
smelters.  He  came  up,  touched  Grant  on  the  shoulder  and 
asked  : 

' '  Adams  ? ' '     Grant  nodded. 

"Are  you  going  down  to  South  Harvey?" 

Grant  replied,  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  hold  a  meeting  there 
to-night." 

"Well,  if  you  try,"  said  the  man,  pushing  his  face  close 
to  Grant's,  "you'll  get  your  head  knocked  off — that's  all. 
We  don't  like  your  kind — understand?"  Grant  looked  at 
the  man,  took  his  measure  physically  and  returned : 

"All  right,  there'll  be  some  one  around  to  pick  it  up — 
maybe ! ' ' 

The  man  walked  away,  but  turned  to  say: 

"Mind  now — you  show  up  in  South  Harvey,  and  we'll  fix 
you  right ! ' ' 

As  Grant  turned  to  board  a  South  Harvey  car,  Judge  Van 
Dorn  caught  his  arm,  and  said : 

"Wait  a  minute,  the  next  car  will  do." 

The  Judge 's  wife  was  with  him,  and  Grant  was  shocked  to 
see  how  doll-like  her  face  had  become,  how  the  lines  of  char 
acter  had  been  smoothed  out,  the  eyelids  stained,  the  eye 
brows  penciled,  the  lips  colored,  until  she  had  a  bisque  look 
that  made  him  shudder.  He  had  seen  faces  like  hers,  and 
fancied  that  he  knew  their  story. 

* '  I  would  like  to  speak  with  you  just  a  minute.  Come  up 
to  the  office.  Margaret,  dearie,"  said  Van  Dorn,  "you  wait 
for  me  at  Brotherton's."  In  the  office,  Van  Dorn  squared 
himself  before  Grant  and  said: 


410  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"It's  no  use,  sir.  You  can't  hold  a  meeting  there  to 
night — the  thing's  set  against  you.  I  can't  stop  them,  but 
I  know  the  rough  element  there  will  kill  you  if  you  try. 
You've  done  your  best — why  risk  your  head,  man — for  no 
purpose?  You  can't  make  it — and  it's  dangerous  for  you 
to  try." 

Grant  looked  at  Van  Dorn.     Then  he  asked : 

"You  represent  the  Harvey  Fuel  Company,  Judge?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Judge  with  much  pride  of  authority, 
"and  we—  " 

Grant  stopped  him.  '  *  Judge, ' '  he  said, ' '  if  you  blow  your 
horn — 111  ring  my  bell  and —  If  I  don't  hold  my  meeting 
to-night,  your  mines  won't  open  to-morrow  morning."  The 
Judge  rose  and  led  the  way  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  sneered,  "if  you  won't  take  advice,  there's 
no  need  of  wasting  time  on  you. ' ' 

"No,"  answered  Grant,  "only  remember  what  I've  said." 

When  Grant  alighted  from  the  car  in  South  Harvey,  he 
found  his  puddler  friend  waiting  for  him.  The  two  went 
into  the  Vanderbilt  House,  where  Grant  greeted  Mrs.  Wil 
liams,  the  landlady,  as  an  old  friend,  and  the  puddler  cried: 
"Say,  lady — if  you  keep  this  man — we'll  burn  your  house." 

"Well,  burn  it — it  wouldn't  be  much  loss,"  retorted  the 
landlady,  who  turned  her  back  upon  the  puddler  and  said  to 
Grant:  "We've  given  you  the  front  room  upstairs,  Grant, 
for  the  committee.  It  has  the  outside  staircase.  Your  room 
is  ready.  You  know  the  Local  No.  10  boys  from  the  Inde 
pendent  are  all  coming  around  this  afternoon — as  soon  as 
they  learn  where  the  meeting  is. ' ' 

The  puddler  walked  away  and  Grant  went  out  into  the 
street ;  looked  up  at  the  wooden  structure  with  the  stairway 
rising  from  the  sidewalk  and  splitting  the  house  in  two. 
Mounting  the  stairs,  he  found  a  narrow  hall,  leading  down 
a  long  line  of  bedrooms.  He  realized  that  he  must  view  his 
location  as  a  general  looks  over  a  battlefield. 

The  closing  of  the  public  halls  to  Grant  and  his  cause  had 
not  discouraged  him.  He  knew  that  he  still  had  the  great 
free  out-of-doors,  and  he  had  thought  that  an  open  air  meet 
ing  would  give  the  cause  dramatic  setting.  He  felt  that  to 
be  barred  from  the  halls  of  the  Valley  helped  rather  than 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     411 

hurt  his  meeting.  The  barring  proved  to  the  workers  the 
righteousness  of  their  demands.  So  Grant  sallied  forth  to 
locate  a  vacant  lot ;  he  shot  out  of  his  room  full  of  the  force 
of  his  enthusiasm,  but  his  force  met  another  force  as  strong 
as  his,  and  ruthless.  God's  free  out  of  doors,  known  and 
beloved  of  Grant  from  his  boyhood,  was  preempted :  What 
he  found  in  his  quest  for  a  meeting  place  was  a  large  red 
sign,  "No  trespassing,"  upon  the  nearest  vacant  lot,  and  a 
special  policeman  parading  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the 
lot  on  the  sidewalk.  He  found  a  score  of  lots  similarly 
placarded  and  patrolled.  He  sent  men  to  Magnus  and  Foley 
scurrying  like  ants  through  the  Valley,  but  no  lot  was  avail 
able. 

Up  town  in  Harvey,  the  ants  also  were  busy.  The  company 
was  sending  men  over  Market  Street,  picking  out  the  few  in 
dividuals  who  owned  vacant  lots,  leasing  them  for  the  month 
and  preparing  to  justify  the  placarding  and  patrolling  that 
already  had  been  done.  One  of  the  ants  that  went  hurrying 
out  of  the  Sands  hill  on  this  errand,  was  John  Kollander, 
and  after  he  had  seen  Wright  &  Perry  and  the  few  other 
merchants  who  owned  South  Harvey  real  estate,  he  en 
countered  Captain  Ezra  Morton,  who  happened  to  have  a 
vacant  lot,  given  to  the  Captain  in  the  first  flush  of  the  South 
Harvey  boom,  in  return  for  some  service  to  Daniel  Sands. 
John  Kollander  explained  his  errand  to  the  Captain,  who 
nodded  wisely,  and  stroked  his  goatee  meditatively. 

"I  got  to  think  it  over,"  he  bawled,  and  walked  away,  leav 
ing  John  Kollander  puzzled  and  dismayed.  But  Captain 
Morton  spent  no  time  in  academic  debate.  In  half  an  hour 
he  was  in  South  Harvey,  climbing  the  stairs  of  the  Vander- 
bilt  House,  and  knocking  at  Grant  Adams 's  door.  Throwing 
open  the  door  Grant  found  Captain  Morton,  standing  to  at 
tention  with  a  shotgun  in  his  hands.  The  Captain  marched 
in,  turned  a  square  corner  to  a  chair,  but  slumped  into  it 
with  a  relieved  sigh. 

"Well,  Grant — I  heard  your  speech  this  morning  to  the 
Merchants'  Association.  You're  crazy  as  a  bed  bug — eh? 
That's  what  I  told  'em  all.  And  then  they  said  to  let  you 
go  to  it — you  couldn't  get  a  hall,  and  the  company  could  keep 
you  off  the  lots  all  over  the  Valley,  and  if  you  tried  to  speak 


412  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

on  the  streets  they  'd  run  you  in — what  say  ? ' '  His  old  eyes 
snapped  with  some  virility,  and  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
cried : 

"But  'y  gory— is  that  the  way  to  do  a  man,  I  says?  No 
— why,  that  ain  't  free  speech  !  I  remember  when  they  done 
Garrison  and  Lovejoy  and  those  old  boys  that  way  before  the 
war.  I  fit,  bled  and  died  for  that,  Grant— eh  ?  And  I  says 
to  the  girls  this  noon :  *  Girls — your  pa 's  got  a  lot  in  South 
Harvey,  over  there  next  to  the  Red  Dog  saloon,  that  he  got 
way  back  when  they  were  cheap,  and  now  that  the  company's 
got  all  their  buildings  up  and  don't  want  to  buy  any  lots — 
why,  they're  cheaper  still — what  say?' 

"And  'y  gory,  I  says  to  the  girls — 'If  your  ma  was  liv 
ing  I  know  what  she'd  say.  She'd  say,  "You  just  go  over 
there  and  tell  that  Adams  boy  that  lot's  hisn,  and  if  any 
one  tries  to  molest  him,  you  blow  'em  to  hell" — that's  what 
your  ma'd  say' — only  words  to  that  effect — eh?  And  so  by 
the  jumping  John  Rogers,  Grant — here  I  am!" 

He  looked  at  the  shotgun.  "One  load's  bird  shot — real 
fine  and  soft,  with  a  small  charge  of  powder."  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  mouth  sheepishly  and  added  apologetically,  "I 
suppose  I  won't  need  it, — but  I  just  put  the  blamedest  load 
of  buck  shot  and  powder  in  that  right  barrel  you  ever  saw — 
what  say  ? ' ' 

Grant  said:  "Well,  Captain — this  isn't  your  fight.  You 
don 't  believe  in  what  I  'm  talking  about — you  've  proved  your 
patriotism  in  a  great  war.  Don't  get  into  this,  Captain." 

"Grant  Adams,"  barked  the  Captain  as  if  he  were  drilling 
his  company,  "I  believe  if  you're  not  a  Socialist,  you're  just 
as  bad.  But  'y  gory,  I  fought  for  the  right  of  free  speech, 
and  free  meetings,  and  Socialist  or  no  Socialist,  that's  your 
right.  I'm  going  to  defend  you  on  my  own  lot."  He  rose 
again,  straightened  up  in  rheumatic  pain,  marched  to  the 
door,  saluted,  and  said: 

"I  brought  my  supper  along  with  me.  It's  in  my  coat 
pocket.  I  'm  going  over  to  the  lot  and  sit  there  till  you  come. 
I  know  this  class  of  people  down  here.  They  ain 't  worth  hell 
room,  Grant,"  admonished  the  Captain  earnestly.  "But  if 
I'm  not  there,  the  company  will  crowd  their  men  in  on  that 
lot  as  sure  as  guns,  when  they  know  you  are  to  meet  there. 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     413 

And  I  'm  going  there  to  guard  it  till  you  come.     Good  day — 
sir." 

And  with  that  he  thumped  limpingly  down  the  narrow 
stairs,  across  the  little  landing,  out  of  the  door  and  into  the 
street. 

Grant  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  watched  him  out 
of  sight.  Then  Grant  pulled  himself  together,  and  went  out 
to  see  the  gathering  members  of  the  Labor  Council  in  the 
hotel  office  and  the  men  of  Local  No.  10  to  announce  the 
place  of  meeting.  Later  in  the  afternoon  he  met  Nathan 
Perry.  When  he  told  Nathan  of  the  meeting,  the  young  man 
cried  in  his  rasping  Yankee  voice : 

11  Good— you  're  no  piker.  They  said  they  had  scared  the 
filling  out  of  you  at  the  meeting  this  morning,  and  they've 
bragged  they  were  going  to  beat  you  up  this  afternoon  and 
kill  you  to-night.  You  look  pretty  husky — but  watch  out. 
They  really  are  greatly  excited." 

"Well,"  replied  Grant  grimly,  "I'll  be  there  to-night." 

"Nevertheless,"  returned  Nathan,  snapping  off  his  words 
as  though  he  was  cutting  them  with  steel  scissors,  "Anne  and 
I  agreed  to-day,  that  I  must  come  to  Mrs.  Williams 's  and  take 
you  to  the  meeting.  They  may  get  ugly  after  dark." 

Half  an  hour  later  on  the  street,  Grant  was  passing  his 
cousin  Anne,  wheeling  Daniel  Kyle  Perry  out  to  take  the 
air.  He  checked  his  hurried  step  when  he  caught  her  smile 
and  said,  "Well,  Anne,  Nate  told  me  that  you  wish  to  send 
him  over  to  the  meeting  to-night,  as  my  body  guard.  I  don 't 
need  a  body  guard,  and  you  keep  Nate  at  home. ' '  He  smiled 
down  on  his  cousin  and  for  a  moment  all  of  the  emotional 
storm  in  his  face  was  melted  by  the  gentleness  of  that  smile. 
"Anne,"  he  said — "what  a  brick  you  are!" 

She  laughed  and  gave  him  the  full  voltage  of  her  joyous 
eyes  and  answered : 

"Grant,  I'd  rather  be  the  widow  of  a  man  who  would 
stand  by  you  and  what  you  are  doing,  than  to  be  the  wife  of 
a  man  who  shrank  from  it."  She  lowered  her  voice,  "And 
Grant,  here's  a  curious  thing:  this  second  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
called  me  up  on  the  phone  a  little  bit  ago,  and  said  she  knew 
you  and  I  were  cousins  and  that  you  and  Nate  were  such 
friends,  but  would  I  tell  Nate  to  keep  you  away  from  any 


414  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

meeting  to-night?  She  said  she  couldn't  tell  me,  but  she 
had  just  learned  some  perfectly  awful  things  they  were  going 
to  do,  and  she  didn't  want  to  see  any  trouble.  Wasn't  that 
queer  ? ' ' 

Grant  shook  his  head.  "Well,  what  did  you  say?"  he 
asked. 

"Oh,  I  said  that  while  they  were  doing  such  perfectly 
awful  things  to  you,  your  friends  wouldn't  be  making  lace 
doilies!  And  she  rang  off.  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 
she  asked. 

*  *  Just  throwing  a  scare  into  me — under  orders, ' '  responded 
the  man  and  hurried  on. 

When  Grant  returned  to  the  hotel  at  supper  time,  he  found 
Mr.  Brotherton  sitting  in  a  ramshackle  rocking  chair  in  the 
upstairs  bedroom,  waiting. 

' '  I  thought  I  'd  come  over  and  bring  a  couple  of  friends, ' ' 
explained  Mr.  Brotherton,  pointing  to  the  corner,  where  two 
shotguns  leaned  against  the  wall. 

"Why,  man,"  exclaimed  Grant,  "that's  good  of  you,  but 
in  all  the  time  I've  been  in  the  work  of  organization,  I've 
never  carried  a  gun,  nor  had  one  around.  I  don't  want  a 
gun,  Mr.  Brotherton." 

"I  do,"  returned  the  elder  man,  "and  I'm  here  to  say 
that  moral  force  is  a  grand  thing,  but  in  these  latitudes  when 
you  poke  Betsy  Jane  under  the  nose  of  an  erring  comrade, 
he  sees  the  truth  with  much  more  clearness  than  otherwise. 
I  stick  to  the  gun — and  you  can  go  in  hard  for  moral  suasion. 

"Also,"  he  added,  "I've  just  taken  a  survey  of  these 
premises,  and  told  the  missus  to  bring  the  supper  up  here. 
There  may  be  an  early  curtain  raiser  on  this  entertainment, 
and  if  they  are  going  to  chase  you  out  of  town  to-night,  I 
want  a  good  seat  at  the  performance. ' '  He  grinned.  ' '  Nate 
Perry  will  join  us  in  a  little  quiet  social  manslaughter.  I 
called  him  up  an  hour  ago,  and  he  said  he'd  be  here  at  six- 
thirty.  I  think  he's  coming  now."  In  another  minute  the 
slim  Yankee  figure  of  Nathan  was  in  the  room.  It  was 
scarcely  dusk  outside.  Mrs.  'Williams  came  up  with  a  tray 
of  food.  As  she  set  it  down  she  said : 

"There's  a  crowd  around  at  the  Hot  Dog,  you  can  see 
them  through  the  window." 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     415 

Nate  and  Grant  looked.  Mr.  Brotherton  went  into  the 
supper.  "Crowd  all  right/'  assented  Nate.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  crowd  and  its  intention.  There  were  new  men 
from  the  day  shift  at  the  smelter,  imported  by  the  com 
pany  to  oppose  the  unions.  A  thousand  such  men  had  been 
brought  into  the  district  within  a  few  months. 

"There's  another  saloon  across  the  road  here,"  said  Mr. 
Brotherton,  looking  up  from  his  food.  "My  understanding 
is  that  they're  going  to  make  headquarters  across  the  street 
in  Dick's  Place.  You  know  I  got  a  pipe-line  in  on  the 
enemy  through  the  Calvin  girl.  She  gets  it  at  home,  and 
her  father  gets  it  at  the  office.  Our  estimable  natty  little 
friend  Joe  will  be  down  here — he  says  to  keep  the  peace. 
That's  what  he  tells  at  home.  I  know  what  he's  coming 
for.  Tom  Van  Dorn  will  sit  in  the  back  room  of  that  saloon 
and  no  one  will  know  he's  there,  and  Joseph  will  issue  Tom's 
orders.  Lord,"  cried  Mr.  Brotherton,  waving  a  triangle  of 
pie  in  his  hand,  "don't  I  know  'em  like  a  book." 

While  he  was  talking  the  crowd  slowly  was  swelling  in 
front  of  the  Hot  Dog  saloon.  It  was  a  drinking  and  noisy 
crowd.  Men  who  appeared  to  be  leaders  were  taking  other 
men  in  to  the  bar,  treating  them,  then  bringing  them  out 
again,  and  talking  excitedly  to  them.  The  crowd  grew  rap 
idly,  and  the  noise  multiplied.  Another  crowd  was  gath 
ering1 — just  a  knot  of  men  down  the  street  by  the  Com 
pany's  store,  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  Hot  Dog 
crowd.  Grant  and  Nate  noticed  the  second  crowd  at  the 
same  time.  It  was  Local  No.  10.  Grant  left  the  window  and 
lighted  the  lamp.  He  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper,  a  few  lines, 
handed  it  to  Nathan,  saying : 

' '  Here,  sign  it  with  me. ' '     It  read : 

"Boys — whatever  you  do,  don't  start  anything — of  any 
kind — no  matter  what  happens  to  us.  We  can  take  care  of 
ourselves. ' ' 

Nathan  Perry  signed  it,  slipped  down  the  stairs  into  the 
hall,  and  beckoned  to  his  men  at  the  Company's  store.  The 
crowd  at  the  Hot  Dog  saw  him  and  yelled,  but  Evan  Evans 
came  running  for  the  note  and  took  it  back.  Little  Tom 
Williams  came  up  the  stairs  with  Nathan,  saying : 

"Well — they're  getting  ready  for  business.     I  brought  a 


416  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

gun  up  to  No.  3  this  afternoon.     I'm  with  Grant  in  this." 

The  little  landlord  went  into  No.  3,  appeared  with  a  rifle, 
and  came  bobbing  into  the  room. 

Grant  at  the  window  could  see  the  crowd  marching  from 
the  Hot  Dog  to  Dick's  Place,  yelling  and  cursing  as  it  went. 
The  group  in  the  bedroom  over  the  street  opened  the  street 
windows  to  see  better  and  hear  better.  An  incandescent 
over  the  door  of  the  saloon  lighted  the  narrow  street.  In 
front  of  the  saloon  and  under  the  light  the  mob  halted.  The 
men  in  the  room  with  Grant  were  at  the  windows  watching. 
Suddenly — as  by  some  prearranged  order,  four  men  with  re 
volvers  in  their  hands  ran  across  the  street  towards  the  ho 
tel.  Brotherton,  Williams  and  Perry  ran  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  guns  in  hand.  Grant  followed  them.  There  they 
stood  when  the  door  below  was  thrown  open,  and  the  four 
men  below  rushed  across  the  small  landing  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  dark  in  the  upper  hall,  but  a  light  from 
the  street  flooded  the  lower  hall.  The  men  below  did  not 
look  up ;  they  were  on  the  stairs. 

"Stop,"  shouted  Brotherton  with  his  great  voice. 

That  halted  them.  They  looked  up  into  darkness.  They 
could  see  no  faces — only  four  gun  barrels.  The  men  farthest 
up  the  stairs  literally  fell  into  the  arms  of  those  below.  Then 
the  four  men  below  scrambled  down  the  stairs  as  Mr.  Broth 
erton  roared: 

"I'll  kill  the  first  man  who  puts  his  foot  on  the  bottom 
step  again." 

With  a  cry  of  terror  they  rushed  out.  The  crowd  at  the 
Company  store  hooted,  and  the  mob  before  the  saloon  jeered. 
But  the  four  men  scurried  across  the  street,  and  told  the 
crowd  what  had  happened.  For  a  few  minutes  no  move  was 
made.  Then  Grant,  who  had  left  the  hallway  and  was  look 
ing  through  the  window,  saw  the  little  figure  of  Joseph  Calvin 
moving  officiously  among  the  men.  He  went  into  the  saloon, 
and  came  out  again  after  a  time.  Then  Grant  cried  to 
Brotherton  at  the  head  of  the  stairs : 

"Watch  out — they're  coming;  more  of  them  this  time." 
And  half  a  dozen  armed  men  rushed  across  the  street  and 
appeared  at  the  door  of  the  hallway. 

"Stop,"    yelled    Brotherton — whose    great    voice    itself 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     417 

sounded  a  terrifying  alarm  in  the  darkened  hallway.  The 
feet  of  two  men  were  on  the  first  steps  of  the  stairs — they 
looked  up  and  saw  three  gun  barrels  pointing  down  at  them, 
and  heard  Brotherton  call  "one — two — three/'  but  before 
he  could  say  * '  fire ' '  the  men  fell  back  panic  stricken  and  ran 
out  of  the  place. 

The  crowd  left  the  sidewalk  and  moved  into  the  saloon, 
and  the  street  was  deserted  for  a  time.  Local  No.  10  held 
its  post  down  by  the  Company  Store.  It  seemed  like  an  age 
to  the  men  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Yet  Mr.  Brotherton 's 
easy  running  fire  of  ribaldry  never  stopped.  He  was  ex 
cited  and  language  came  from  his  throat  without  restraint. 

Then  Grant's  quick  ear  caught  a  sound  that  made  him 
shudder.  It  was  far  away,  a  shrill  high  note;  in  a  few 
seconds  the  note  was  repeated,  and  with  it  the  animal  cry 
one  never  mistakes  who  hears  it — the  cry  of  an  angry  mob. 
They  could  hear  it  roaring  over  the  bridge  upon  the  Wahoo 
and  they  knew  it  was  the  mob  from  Magnus,  Plain  Valley 
and  Foley  coming.  On  it  came,  with  its  high-keyed  horror 
growing  louder  and  louder.  It  turned  into  the  street  and 
came  roaring  and  whining  down  to  the  meeting  place  at  the 
saloon.  It  filled  the  street.  Then  appeared  Mr.  Calvin  fol 
lowing  a  saloon  porter,  who  was  rolling  a  whiskey  barrel 
from  the  saloon.  The  porter  knocked  in  the  head,  and  threw 
tin  cups  to  the  crowd. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  praying  Christian?" 
snarled  Mr.  Brotherton.  No  one  answered  Mr.  Brotherton, 
for  the  whiskey  soon  began  to  make  the  crowd  noisy. 
But  the  leaders  waited  for  the  whiskey  to  make  the  crowd 
brave.  The  next  moment,  Van  Dorn's  automobile — the  old 
one,  not  the  new  one — came  chugging  up.  Grant,  at  the 
window,  looked  out  and  turned  deathly  sick.  For  he  saw 
the  puddler  who  had  bullied  him  during  the  day  get  out  of 
the  car,  and  in  the  puddler 's  grasp  was  Kenyon — with  white 
face,  but  not  whimpering. 

The  men  made  way  for  the  puddler,  who  hurried  the  boy 
into  the  saloon.  Grant  did  not  speak,  but  stood  unnerved 
and  horror-stricken  staring  at  the  saloon  door  which  had 
swallowed  up  the  boy. 

"Well,  for  God—"  cried  Brotherton. 


418  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"A  screen — they're  going  to  use  the  boy  as  a  shield — the 
damn  cowards ! ' '  rasped  Nathan  Perry. 

The  little  Welshman  moaned.  And  the  three  men  stood 
staring  at  Grant  whose  eyes  did  not  shift  from  the  saloon 
door.  He  was  rigid  and  his  face,  which  trembled  for  a  mo 
ment,  set  like  molten  bronze. 

"If  I  surrender  now,  if  they  beat  me  here  with  anything 
less  than  my  death,  the  whole  work  of  years  is  gone — the 
long  struggle  of  these  men  for  their  rights."  He  spoke  not 
to  his  companions,  but  through  them  to  himself.  "I  can't 
give  up — not  even  for  Kenyon,"  he  cried.  "Tom — Tom," 
Grant  turned  to  the  little  Welshman.  "You  stood  by  and 
heard  Dick  Bowman  order  Mugs  to  hold  the  shovel  over  my 
face !  Did  he  shrink?  Well,  this  cause  is  the  life  and  death 
struggle  of  all  the  Dicks  in  the  Valley — not  for  just  this 
week,  but  for  always." 

Below  the  crowd  was  hushed.  Joe  Calvin  had  appeared 
and  was  giving  orders  in  a  low  tone.  The  hulking  figure  of 
the  puddler  could  be  seen  picking  out  his  men ;  he  had  three 
set  off  in  a  squad.  The  men  in  the  room  could  see  the  big 
beads  of  sweat  stand  out  on  Grant's  forehead.  "Kenyon — 
Kenyon,"  he  cried  in  agony.  Then  George  Brotherton  let 
out  his  bellow,  "Grant — look  here — do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  fire  on — " 

But  the  next  minute  the  group  at  the  window  saw  some 
thing  that  made  even  George  Brotherton 's  bull  voice  stop. 
Into  the  drab  street  below  flashed  something  all  red.  It 
was  the  Van  Dorn  motor  car,  the  new  one.  But  the  red  of 
the  car  was  subdued  beside  the  scarlet  of  the  woman  in  the 
back  seat — a  woman  without  hat  or  coat,  holding  something 
in  her  arms.  The  men  at  the  window  could  not  see  what 
those  saw  in  the  street;  but  they  could  see  Joe  Calvin  fall 
back;  could  see  the  consternation  on  his  face,  could  see  him 
waving  his  hands  to  the  crowd  to  clear  the  way.  And  then 
those  at  the  window  above  saw  Margaret  Van  Dorn  rise  in  the 
car  and  they  heard  her  call,  "Joe  Calvin!  Joe  Calvin — " 
she  screamed,  "bring  my  husband  out  from  behind  that  wine 
room  door — quick — quick,"  she  shrieked,  "quick,  I  say." 

The  mob  parted  for  her.  The  men  at  the  hotel  window 
could  not  see  what  she  had  in  her  arms.  She  made  the 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     419 

driver  wheel,  drive  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  directly 
under  the  hotel  window — directly  in  front  of  the  besieged 
door.  In  another  instant  Van  Dorn,  ghastly  with  rage,  came 
bareheaded  out  of  the  saloon.  He  ran  across  the  street  cry 
ing: 

"You  she  devil,  what  do  you — " 

But  he  stopped  without  finishing  his  sentence.  The  men 
above  looked  down  at  what  he  was  looking  at  and  saw  a 
child — Tom  Van  Dorn's  child,  Lila,  in  the  car. 

"My  God,  Margaret — what  does  this  mean?"  he  almost 
whispered  in  terror. 

"It  means,"  returned  the  strident  voice  of  the  woman, 
"that  when  you  sent  for  your  car  and  the  driver  told  me 
he  was  going  to  Adamses — I  knew  why — from  what  you 
said,  arid  now,  by  God,"  she  screamed,  "give  me  that  boy — 
or  this  girl  goes  to  the  union  men  as  their  shield." 

Van  Dorn  did  not  speak.  His  mouth  seemed  about  to  be 
gin,  but  she  stopped  him,  crying : 

"And  if  you  touch  her  I'll  kill  you  both.  And  the  child 
goes  first. ' ' 

The  woman  had  lost  control  of  her  voice.  She  swung  a 
pistol  toward  the  child. 

"Give  me  that  boy!"  she  shrieked,  and  Van  Dorn,  dumb 
and  amazed,  stood  staring  at  her.  "Tell  them  to  bring  that 
boy  before  I  count  five:  One,  two,"  she  shouted,  "three — " 

"Oh,  Joe,"  called  Van  Dorn  as  his  whole  body  began  to 
tremble,  "bring  the  Adams  boy  quick — here!"  His  voice 
broke  into  a  shriek  with  nervous  agitation  and  the  word 
"here"  was  uttered  with  a  piercing  yell,  that  made  the 
crowd  wince. 

Calvin  brought  Kenyon  out  and  sent  him  across  the  street. 
Grant  opened  a  window  and  called  out :  ' '  Get  into  the  car 
with  Lila,  Kenyon — please." 

The  woman  in  the  car  cried :  ' i  Grant,  Grant,  is  that  you 
up  there?  They  were  going  to  murder  the  boy,  Grant,  Do 
you  want  his  child  up  there  ? ' ' 

She  looked  up  and  the  arc  light  before  the  hotel  revealed 
her  tragic,  shattered  face — a  wreck  of  a  face,  crumpled  and 
all  out  of  line  and  focus  as  the  flickering  glare  of  the  arc- 
light  fell  upon  it.  ' '  Shall  I  send  you  his  child  ? "  she  babbled 


420  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

hysterically,  keeping  the  revolver  pointed  at  Lila — "His 
child  that  he's  silly  about?" 

Van  Dorn  started  for  her  car,  but  Brotherton  at  the  win 
dow  bellowed  across  a  gun  sight:  "Move  an  inch  and  I'll 
shoot." 

Grant  called  down:  "Margaret,  take  Lila  and  Kenyon 
home,  please." 

Then,  with  Mr.  Brotherton 's  gun  covering  the  father  in 
the  street  below,  the  driver  of  the  car  turned  it  carefully 
through  the  parting  crowd,  and  was  gone  as  mysteriously 
and  as  quickly  as  he  came. 

"Now,"  cried  Mr.  Brotherton,  still  sighting  down  the  gun 
barrel  pointed  at  Van  Dorn,  standing  alone  in  the  middle  of 
the  street,  "you  make  tracks,  and  don't  you  go  to  that 
saloon  either — you  go  home  to  the  bosom  of  your  family. 
Stop,"  roared  Mr.  Brotherton,  as  the  man  tried  to  break 
into  a  run.  Van  Dorn  stopped.  "Go  down  to  the  Company 
store  where  the  union  men  are, ' '  commanded  Mr.  Brotherton. 
"They  will  take  you  home. 

"Hey — you  Local  No.  10,"  howled  the  great  bull  voice  of 
Brotherton.  "You  fellows  take  this  man  home  to  his  own 
vine  and  fig  tree." 

Van  Uorn,  looking  ever  behind  him  for  help  that  did  not 
come,  edged  down  the  street  and  into  the  arms  of  Local  No. 
10,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  that  crowd.  A  rock  from  across 
the  street  crashed  through  the  window  where  the  gun  barrels 
were  protruding,  but  there  was  no  fire  in  return.  Another 
rock  and  another  came.  But  there  was  no  firing. 

Grant,  who  knew  something  of  mobs,  felt  instinctively 
that  the  trouble  was  over.  Nathan  and  Brotherton  agreed. 
They  stood  for  a  time — a  long  time  it  seemed  to  them — 
guarding  the  stairs.  Then  some  one  struck  a  match  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half  past  eight.  It  was  too 
late  for  Grant  to  hold  his  meeting.  But  he  felt  strongly 
that  the  exit  of  Van  Dorn  had  left  the  crowd  without  a 
leader  and  that  the  fight  of  the  night  was  won. 

"Well,"  said  Grant,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "They'll 
not  run  me  out  of  town  to-night.  I  could  go  to  the  lot  now 
and  hold  the  meeting;  but  it's  late  and  it  will  be  better  to 


A  STRANGE  MEETING  AND  A  NIGHT  RIDE     421 

wait  until  to-morrow  night.  They  should  sleep  this  off — 
I'm  going  to  talk  to  them." 

He  stepped  to  an  iron  balcony  outside  the  window  and 
putting  his  hands  to  his  mouth  uttered  a  long  horn-like  blast. 
The  men  saw  him  across  the  street.  "Come  over  here,  all 
of  you — "  he  called.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you — just  a 
minute." 

The  crowd  moved,  first  one  or  two,  then  three  or  four,  then 
by  tens.  Soon  the  crowd  stood  below  looking  up  half  curi 
ously — half  angrily. 

1  'You  see,  men,"  he  smiled  as  he  shoved  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and  put  his  head  humorously  on  one  side : 

"We  are  more  hospitable  when  you  all  come  than  when 
you  send  your  delegations.  It's  more  democratic  this  way 
— just  to  kind  of  meet  out  here  like  a  big  family  and  talk  it 
over.  Some  way,"  he  laughed,  "your  delegates  were  in  a 
hurry  to  go  back  and  report.  Well,  now,  that  was  right. 
That  is  true  representative  government.  You  sent  'em,  they 
came;  were  satisfied  and  went  back  and  told  you  all  about 
it."  The  crowd  laughed.  He  knew  when  they  laughed 
that  he  could  talk  on.  "But  you  see,  I  believe  in  democratic 
government.  I  want  you  all  to  come  and  talk  this  matter 
over — not  just  a  few." 

He  paused;  then  began  again:  "Now,  men,  it's  late. 
I've  got  so  much  to  say  I  don't  want  to  begin  now.  I  don't 
like  to  have  Tom  Van  Dorn  and  Joe  Calvin  divide  time  with 
me.  I  want  the  whole  evening  to  myself.  And,"  he  leaned 
over  clicking  his  iron  claw  on  the  balcony  railing  while  his 
jaw  showed  the  play  of  muscles  in  the  light  from  below, 
"what's  more  I'm  going  to  have  it,  if  it  takes  all  summer. 
Now  then,"  he  cried:  "The  Labor  Council  of  the  Wahoo 
Valley  will  hold  its  meeting  to-morrow  night  at  seven-thirty 
sharp  on  Captain  Morton's  vacant  lot  just  the  other  side  of 
the  Hot  Dog  saloon.  I'll  talk  to  that  meeting.  I  want  you 
to  come  to  that  meeting  and  hear  what  we  have  to  say  about 
what  we  are  trying  to  do." 

A  few  men  clapped  their  hands.  Grant  Adams  turned 
back  into  the  room  and  in  due  course  the  crowd  slowly  dis 
solved.  At  ten  o'clock  he  was  standing  in  the  door  of  the 


422  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Vanderbilt  House  looking  at  his  watch,  ready  to  turn  in 
for  the-  night.  Suddenly  he  remembered  the  Captain.  He 
hurried  around  to  the  Hot  Dog,  and  there  peering  into  the 
darkness  of  the  vacant  lot  saw  the  Captain  with  his  gun 
on  his  shoulder  pacing  back  and  forth,  a  silent,  faithful  sen 
try,  unrelieved  from  duty. 

AVhen  Grant  had  relieved  him  and  told  him  that  the 
trouble  was  over,  the  little  old  man  looked  up  with  his 
snappy  eyes  and  his  dried,  weazened  smile  and  said:  "  'Y 
gory,  man — I'm  glad  you  come.  I  was  just  a-thinking  I  bet 
them  girls  of  mine  haven't  cooked  any  potatoes  to  go  with 
the  meat  to  make  hash  for  breakfast — eh?  and  I'm  strong 
for  hash. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

IN  WHICH  WE  WITNESS  A  CEREMONY  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OP  LOVE 

GEORGE  BROTHERTON  took  the  Captain  to  the 
street  car  that  night.  They  rode  face  to  face  and  all 
that  the  Captain  had  seen  and  more,  outside  the 
Vanderbilt  House,  and  all  that  George  Brotherton  had  seen 
within  its  portals,  a  street  car  load  of  Harvey  people  heard 
with  much  "  'Y  gory  ing"  and  "Well — saying,"  as  the  car 
rattled  through  the  fields  and  into  Market  Street.  Amiable 
satisfaction  with  the  night's  work  beamed  in  the  moonface 
of  Mr.  Brotherton  and  the  Captain  was  drunk  with  martial 
spirit.  He  shouldered  his  gun  and  marched  down  the  full 
length  of  the  car  and  off,  dragging  Brotherton  at  his  chariot 
wheels  like  a  spoil  of  battle. 

"Come  on,  George,"  called  the  Captain  as  the  audience 
in  the  car  smiled.  "Young  man,  I  need  you  to  tell  the  girls 
that  their  pa  ain't  gone  stark,  staring  mad — eh?  And  I 
want  to  show  'em  a  hero ! — What  say  ?  A  genuine  hee-ro  ! ' ' 

It  was  half  an  hour  after  the  Captain  bursting  upon  his 
hearthstone  like  a  martial  sky  rocket,  had  exploded  the  last 
of  his  blue  and  green  candles.  The  three  girls,  sitting 
around  the  cold  base  burner,  beside  and  above  which  Mr. 
Brotherton  stood  in  statuesque  repose,  heard  the  Captain's 
tale  and  the  protests  of  Mr.  Brotherton  much  as  Desdemona 
heard  of  Othello's  perils.  And  when  the  story  was  finished 
and  retold  and  refinished  and  the  Captain  was  rising  with 
what  the  girls  called  the  hash-look  in  his  snappy  little  eyes, 
Martha  saw  Ruth  swallow  a  vast  yawn  and  Martha  turned 
to  Emma  an  appreciative  smile  at  Ruth's  discomfiture. 

But  Emma's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Mr.  Brotherton  and 
her  face  turned  toward  him  with  an  aspect  of  tender  adora 
tion.  Mr.  Brotherton,  who  was  not  without  appreciation  of 
his  own  heroic  caste,  saw  the  yawn  and  the  smile  and  then 
he  saw  the  face  of  Emma  Morton. 

423 


424  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

It  came  over  him  in  a  flash  of  surprise  that  Ruth  and 
Martha  were  young  things,  not  of  his  world;  and  that  Emma 
was  of  his  world  and  very  much  for  him  in  his  world.  It 
got  to  him  through  the  busy  guard  of  his  outer  consciousness 
with  a  great  rush  of  tenderness  that  Emma  really  cared  for 
the  dangers  he  had  faced  and  was  proud  of  the  part  he  had 
played.  And  Mr.  Brotherton  knew  that,  with  Ruth  and 
Martha,  it  was  a  tale  that  was  told. 

As  he  saw  her  standing  among  her  sisters,  his  heart  hid 
from  him  the  little  school  teacher  with  crow's  feet  at  her 
eyes,  but  revealed  instead  the  glowing  heart  of  an  exalted 
woman,  who  did  not  realize  that  she  was  uncovering  her  love, 
a  woman  who  in  the  story  she  had  heard  was  living  for  a 
moment  in  high  romance.  Her  beloved,  imperiled,  was  re 
stored  to  her ;  the  lost  was  found  and  the  journey  which  ends 
so  happily  in  lovers'  meetings  was  closing. 

His  eyes  filled  and  his  voice  needed  a  cough  to  prime  it. 
The  fire,  glowing  in  Emma  Morton's  eyes,  steamed  up  George 
Brotherton 's  will — the  will  which  had  sent  him  crashing  for 
ward  in  life  from  a  train  peddler  to  a  purveyor  of  literature 
and  the  arts  in  Harvey.  Deeds  followed  impulses  with  him 
swiftly,  so  in  an  instant  the  floor  of  the  Morton  cottage  was 
shaking  under  his  tread  and  with  rash  indifference,  high  and 
heroic,  ignoring  with  equal  disdain  two  tittering  girls,  an 
astonished  little  old  man  and  a  cold  base  burner,  the  big  man 
stalked  across  the  room  and  cried : 

"Well,  say — why,  Emma — my  dear!"  He  had  her  hands 
in  his  and  was  putting  his  arm  about  her  as  he  bellowed: 
"Girls — "  his  voice  broke  under  its  heavy  emotional  load. 
"Why,  dammit  all,  I'm  your  long-lost  brother  George! 
Cap, 'kick  me,  kick  me — me  the  prize  jackass — the  grand 
sweepstake  prize  all  these  years ! ' ' 

"No,  no,  George,"  protested  the  wriggling  maiden.  "Not 
—not  here!  Not—" 

"Don't  you  'no — no'  me,  Emmy  Morton,"  roared  the  big 
man,  pulling  her  to  his  side.  "Girl — girl,  what  do  we 
care?"  He  gave  her  a  resounding  kiss  and  gazed  proudly 
around  and  exclaimed,  "Ruthie,  run  and  call  up  the  Times 
and  give  'em  the  news.  Martha,  call  up  old  man  Adams — 
and  1 11  take  a  bell  to-morrow  and  go  calling  it  up  and  down 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OP  LOVE  425 

Market  Street.  Then,  Cap,  you  tell  Mrs.  Herdicker.  This 
is  the  big  news."  As  he  spoke  he  was  gathering  the  amazed 
Ruth  and  Martha  under  his  wing  and  kissing  them,  crying, 
"Take  that  one  for  luck — and  that  to  grow  on."  Then  he 
let  out  his  laugh.  But  in  vain  did  Emma  Morton  try  to 
squirm  from  his  grasp ;  in  vain  she  tried  to  quiet  his  clatter. 
"Say,  girls,  cluster  around  Brother  George's  knee— or  knees 
— and  let's  plan  the  wedding." 

"You  are  going  to  have  a  wedding,  aren't  you,  Emma?" 
burst  in  Ruth,  and  George  cut  in : 

"Wedding — why,  this  is  to  be  the  big  show — the  laughing 
show,  all  the  wonders  of  the  world  and  marvels  of  the  deep 
under  one  canvas.  Why,  girls — " 

"Well,  Emma,  you've  just  got  to  wear  a  veil,"  laughed 
Martha  hysterically. 

"Veil  nothing — shame  on  you,  Martha  Morton.  Why, 
George  hasn't  asked — " 

' '  Now  ain  't  it  the  truth  ! ' '  roared  Brotherton.  '  *  Why  veil ! 
VeiH"  he  exclaimed.  "She's  going  to  wear  seven  veils  and 
forty  flower  girls — forty — count  'em — forty!  And  Morty 
Sands  best  man — " 

"Keep  still,  George,"  interrupted  Ruth.  "Now,  Emma, 
when — when,  I  say,  are  you  going  to  resign  your  school?" 

Mr.  Brotherton  gave  the  youngest  and  most  practical  Miss 
Morton  a  look  of  quick  intelligence.  "Don't  you  fret; 
Ruthie,  I'm  hog  tied  by  the  silken  skein  of  love.  She's  go 
ing  to  resign  her  school  to-morrow." 

"Indeed  I  am  not,  George  Brotherton — and  if  you  people 
don't  hush- 
But  Mr.  Brotherton  interrupted  the  bride-to-be,  inciden 
tally  kissing  her  by  way  of  punctuation,  and  boomed  on  in 
his  poster  tone,  "Morty  Sands  best  man  with  his  gym  class 
from  South  Harvey  doing  ground  and  lofty  tumbling  up  and 
down  the  aisles  in  pink  tights.  Doc  Jim  in  linen  pants 
whistling  the  Wedding  March  to  Kenyon  Adams's  violin 
obligate,  with  the  General  hitting  the  bones  at  the  organ! 
The  greatest  show  on  earth  and  the  baby  elephant  in  evening 
clothes  prancing  down  the  aisle  like  the  behemoth  of  holy 
writ!  Well,  say — say,  I  tell  you!" 

The  Captain  touched  the  big  man  on  the  shoulder  apolo- 


426  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

getically.  "George,  of  course,  if  you  could  wait  a  year  till 
the  Household  Horse  gets  going  good,  I  could  stake  you  for 
a  trip  to  the  Grand  Canyon  myself,  but  just  now,  V  gory, 
man ! ' ' 

"Grand  Canyon!"  laughed  Brotherton.  "Why,  Cap, 
we're  going  to  go  seven  times  around  the  world  and  twice 
to  the  moon  before  we  turn  up  in  Harvey.  Grand  Can 
yon —  " 

"Well,  at  least,  father/ '  cried  Martha,  "we'll  get  her 
that  tan  traveling  dress  and  hat  she's  always  wanted." 

"But  I  tell  you  girls  to  keep  still,"  protested  the  bride- 
to-be,  still  in  the  prospective  groom's  arms  and  proud  as 
Punch  of  her  position.  "Why,  George  hasn't  even  asked 
me  and — " 

"Neither  have  you  asked  me,  Emma,  '  'eathen  idol  made  of 
mud  what  she  called  the  Great  God  Buhd.'  "  He  stooped 
over  tenderly  and  when  his  face  rose,  he  said  softly,  "And 
a  plucky  lot  she  cared  for  tan  traveling  dresses  when  I 
kissed  her  where  she  stud!"  And  then  and  there  before  the 
Morton  family  assembled,  he  kissed  his  sweetheart  again,  a 
middle-aged  man  unashamed  in  his  joy. 

It  was  a  tremendous  event  in  the  Morton  family  and  the 
Captain  felt  his  responsibility  heavily.  The  excited  girls, 
half-shocked  and  half-amused  and  wholly  delighted,  tried  to 
lead  the  Captain  away  and  leave  the  lovers  alone  after 
George  had  hugged  them  all  around  and  kissed  them  again 
for  luck.  But  the  Captain  refused  to  be  led.  He  had  many 
things  to  say.  He  had  to  impress  upon  Mr.  Brotherton, 
now  that  he  was  about  to  enter  the  family,  the  great  fact  that 
the  Mortons  were  about  to  come  into  riches.  Hence  a  dis 
sertation  on  the  Household  Horse  and  its  growing  popularity 
among  makers  of  automobiles;  Nate  Perry's  plans  in  blue 
print  for  the  new  factory  were  brought  in,  and  a  wilderness 
of  detail  spread  before  an  ardent  lover,  keen  for  his  first 
hour  alone  with  the  woman  who  had  touched  his  bachelor 
heart  A  hundred  speeches  came  to  his  lips  and  dissolved 
— first  formal  and  ardent  love  vows — while  the  Captain  rat 
tled  on  recounting  familiar  details  of  his  dream. 

Then  Ruth  and  Martha  rose  in  their  might  and  literally 
dragged  their  father  from  the  room  and  upstairs.  Half  an 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  LOVE  427 

hour  later  the  two  lovers  in  the  doorway  heard  a  stir  in 
the  house  behind  them.  They  heard  the  Captain  cry : 

"The  hash — George,  she's  the  best  girl — 'Y  gory,  the  best 
girl  in  the  world.  But  she  will  forget  to  chop  the  hash  over 
night!" 

As  George  Brotherton,  bumping  his  head  upon  the  eternal 
stars,  turned  into  the  street,  he  saw  the  great  black  hulk  of 
the  Van  Dorn  house  among  the  trees.  He  smiled  as  he  won 
dered  how  the  ceremonies  were  proceeding  in  the  Temple  of 
Love  that  night. 

It  was  not  a  ceremony  fit  for  smiles,  but  rather  for  the 
tears  of  gods  and  men,  that  the  priest  and  priestess  had  per 
formed.  Margaret  Van  Dorn  had  taken  Kenyon  home,  then 
dropped  Lila  at  the  Nesbit  door  as  she  returned  from  South 
Harvey.  When  she  found  that  her  husband  had  not  reached 
home,  she  ran  to  her  room  to  fortify  herself  for  the  meeting 
with  him.  And  she  found  her  fortifications  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  bottom  drawer  of  her  dresser.  From  its  hid 
ing  place  she  brought  forth  a  little  black  box  and  from  the 
box  a  brown  pellet.  This  fortification  had  been  her  refuge 
for  over  a  year  when  the  stress  of  life  in  the  Temple  of  Love 
was  about  to  overcome  her.  It  gave  her  courage,  quickened 
her  wits  and  loosened  her  tongue.  Always  she  retired  to  her 
fortress  when  the  combat  in  the  Temple  threatened  to  strain 
her  nerves.  So  she  had  worn  a  beaten  path  of  habit  to  her 
refuge. 

Then  she  made  herself  presentable;  took  care  of  her  hair, 
smoothed  her  face  at  the  mirror  and  behind  the  shield  of 
the  drug  she  waited.  She  heard  the  old  car  rattling  up  the 
street,  and  braced  herself  for  the  struggle.  She  knew — she 
had  learned  by  bitter  experience  that  the  first  blow  in  a 
rough  and  tumble  was  half  the  battle.  As  he  came  raging 
through  the  door,  slamming  it  behind  him,  she  faced  him, 
and  before  he  could  speak,  she  sneered : 

"Ah,  you  coward — you  sneaking,  cur  coward — who  would 
murder  a  child  to  win — Ach!"  she  cried.  "You  are  loath 
some — get  away  from  me ! ' ' 

The  furious  man  rushed  toward  her  with  his  hands 
clinched.  She  stood  with  her  arms  akimbo  and  said  slowly: 
"You  try  that— just  try  that." 


428  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

He  stopped.  She  came  over  and  rubbed  her  body  against 
his,  purring,  with  a  pause  after  each  word: 

1 '  You  are  a  coward — aren  't  you  ? ' ' 

She  put  her  fingers  under  his  jaw,  and  sneered,  "If  ever 
you  lay  hands  on  me — just  one  finger  on  me,  Tom  Van 
Dorn — "  She  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

The  man  uttered  a  shrill,  insane  cry  of  fury  and  whirled 
and  would  have  run,  but  she  caught  him,  and  with  a  gross 
physical  power,  that  he  knew  and  dreaded,  she  swung  him 
by  force  into  a  chair. 

"Now,"  she  panted,  "sit  down  like  a  man  and  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  do  about  it?  Look  up — dawling!" 
she  cried,  as  Van  Dorn  slumped  in  the  chair. 

The  man  gave  her  a  look  of  hate.  His  eyes,  that  showed 
his  soul,  burned  with  rage  and  from  his  face,  so  mobile  and 
expressive,  a  devil  of  malice  gaped  impotently  at  his  wife,  as 
he  sat,  a  heap  of  weak  vanity,  before  her.  He  pulled  himself 
up  and  exclaimed : 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  damn  sure,  I'll  not  live  with  you 
any  more — no  man  would  respect  me  if  I  did  after  to-night. ' ' 

4  *  And  no  man, ' '  she  smiled  and  said  in  her  mocking  voice, 
"will  respect  you  if  you  leave  me.  How  Laura's  friends 
will  laugh  when  you  go,  and  say  that  Tom  Van  Dorn  simply 
can't  live  with  any  one.  How  the  Nesbit  crowd  will  titter 
when  you  leave  me,  and  say  Tom  Van  Dorn  got  just  what 
he  had  coming!  Why — go  on — leave  me — if  you  dare! 
You  know  you  don't  dare  to.  It's  for  better  or  worse,  Tom, 
until  death  do  us  part — dawling ! ' ' 

She  laughed  and  winked  indecently  at  him. 

"I  will  leave  you,  I  tell  you,  I  will  leave  you,"  he  burst 
forth,  half  rising.  "All  the  devils  of  hell  can't  keep  me 
here." 

"Except  just  this  one,"  she  mocked.  "Oh,  you  might 
leave  me  and  go  with  your  present  mistress !  By  the  way, 
who  is  our  latest  conquest — dawling  ?  I  'm  sure  that  would  be 
fine.  Wouldn't  they  cackle — the  dear  old  hens  whose  claws 
scratch  your  heart  so  every  day  ? ' '  She  leaned  over,  caress 
ing  him  devilishly,  and  cried,  "For  you  know  when  you  get 
loose  from  me,  you'll  pretty  nearly  have  to  marry  the  other 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  LOVE  429 

lady — wouldn't  that  be  nice?  'Through  sickness  and 
health,  for  good  or  for  ill,' — isn't  it  nice?"  she  scoffed. 
Then  she  turned  on  him  savagely,  "So  you  will  try  to  hide 
behind  a  child,  and  use  him  for  a  shield — Oh,  you  cur — you 
despicable  dog,"  she  scorned.  Then  she  drew  herself  up  and 
spoke  in  a  passion  that  all  but  hissed  at  him.  "I  tell  you, 
Tom  Van  Dorn,  if  you  ever,  in  this  row  that's  corning,  harm 
a  hair  of  that  boy's  head — you'll  carry  the  scar  of  that  hair 
to  your  grave.  I  mean  it. ' ' 

Van  Dorn  sprang  up.  He  cried :  "What  business  is  it  of 
yours?  You  she  devil,  what's  the  boy  to  you?  Can't  I  run 
my  own  business  ?  Why  do  you  care  so  much  for  the  Adams 
brat?  Answer  me,  I  tell  you — answer  me,"  he  cried,  his 
wrath  filling  his  voice. 

"Oh,  nothing,  dawling,"  she  made  a  wicked,  obscene  eye  at 
him,  and  simpered:  "Oh,  nothing,  Tom — only  you  see  I 
might  be  his  mother ! ' ' 

She  played  with  the  vulgar  diamonds  that  hid  her  fingers 
and  looked  down  coyly  as  she  smiled  into  his  gray  face. 

"Great  God,"  he  whispered,  "were  you  born  a — "  he 
stopped,  ashamed  of  the  word  in  his  mouth. 

The  woman  kept  twinkling  her  indecent  eyes  at  him  and 
put  her  head  on  one  side  as  she  replied:  "Whatever  I  am, 
I  'm  the  wife  of  Judge  Van  Dorn ;  so  I  'm  quite  respectable 
now — whatever  I  was  once.  Isn't  that  lawvly,  dawling!" 
She  began  talking  in  her  baby  manner. 

Her  husband  was  staring  at  her  with  doubt  and  fear  and 
weak,  footless  wrath  playing  like  scurrying  clouds  across 
his  proud,  shamed  face. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  tell  me  the  truth,"  he  moaned,  as  the  fear 
of  the  truth  baffled  him — a  thousand  little  incidents  that  had 
attracted  his  notice  and  passed  to  be  stirred  up  by  a  puzzled 
consciousness  came  rushing  into  his  memory — and  the  doubt 
and  dread  overcame  even  his  hate  for  a  moment  and  he 
begged.  But  she  laughed,  and  scouted  the  idea  and  then 
called  out  in  anguish : 

"Why — why  have  you  a  child  to  love — to  love  and  live  for 
even  if  you  cannot  be  with  her — why  can  I  have  none  ? ' ' 

Her  voice  had  broken  and  she  felt  she  was  losing  her  grip 


430  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

on  herself,  and  she  knew  that  her  time  was  limited,  that  her 
fortifications  were  about  to  crumble.  She  sat  down  before 
her  husband. 

"Tom,"  she  said  coldly,  "no  matter  why  I'm  fond  of 
Kenyon  Adams — that's  my  business;  Lila  is  your  business, 
and  I  don't  interfere,  do  I?  Well,"  she  said,  looking  the 
man  in  the  eyes  with  a  hard,  mean,  significant  stare,  "you 
let  the  boy  alone — do  you  understand  ?  Do  what  you  please 
with  Grant  or  Jasper  or  the  old  man;  but  Kenyon — hands 
off!" 

She  rose,  slipped  quickly  to  the  stairway,  and  as  she  ran 
up  she  called,  *  *  Good  night,  dawling. ' '  Before  he  was  on  his 
feet  he  heard  the  lock  click  in  her  door,  and  with  a  horrible 
doubt,  an  impotent  rage,  and  a  mantling  shame  stifling  him, 
he  went  upstairs  and  from  her  distant  room  she  heard  the 
bolt  click  in  the  door  of  his  room.  And  behind  the  bolted 
doors  stood  two  ghosts — the  ghosts  of  rejected  children,  call 
ing  across  the  years,  while  the  smudge  of  the  extinguished 
torch  of  life  choked  two  angry  hearts. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

GRANT   ADAMS  VISITS  THE   SONS  OF   ESAU 

' '  T\  /f  Y  dear, ' '  quoth  the  Doctor  to  his  daughter  as  he 
VB  sa*  P0king  his  feet  with  his  cane  in  her  little 

JL  *  -M-  office  at  the  Kindergarten,  after  they  had  dis 
cussed  Lila's  adventure  of  the  night  before,  "I  saw  Tom  up 
town  this  morning  and  he  didn't  seem  to  be  exactly  happy. 
I  says,  'Tom,  I  hear  you  beat  God  at  his  own  game  last 
night!'  and,"  the  Doctor  chuckled,  "Laura,  do  you  know,  he 
wouldn't  speak  to  me!"  As  he  laughed,  the  daughter  inter 
rupted  : 

"Why,  father — that  was  mean — " 

"Of  course  it  was  mean.  Why — considering  everything, 
I'd  lick  a  man  if  he'd  talk  that  mean  to  me.  But  my  Een- 
jiany  devil  kind  of  got  control  of  my  forbearing  Christian 
spirit  and  I  cut  loose." 

The  daughter  smiled,  then  she  sighed,  and  asked: 
"Father — tell  me,  why  did  that  woman  object  to  Tom's  use  of 
Kenyon  in  the  riot  last  night?" 

Doctor  Nesbit  opened  his  mouth  as  if  to  answer  her.  Then 
he  smiled  and  said,  "Don't  ask  me,  child.  She's  a  bad 
egg!" 

"Lila  says,"  continued  the  daughter,  "that  Margaret  ap 
pears  at  every  public  place  where  Kenyon  plays.  She  seems 
eager  to  talk  to  him  about  his  accomplishments,  and  has  a 
sort  of  fascinated  interest  in  whatever  he  does,  as  nearly  as 
I  can  understand  it?  Why,  father?  What  do  you  suppose 
it  is?  I  asked  Grant,  who  was  here  this  morning  with  a 
Croatian  baby  whose  mother  is  in  the  glass  works,  and  Grant 
only  shook  his  head."  The  father  looked  at  his  daughter 
over  his  glasses  and  asked : 

"Croatians,  eh?  That's  what  the  new  colony  is  down  in 
Magnus.  Well,  we've  got  Letts  and  Lithuanians  and  why 

431 


432  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

not  Croatians  ?     What  a  mix  we  have  here  in  the  Valley !     I 
wouldn't  wash  'em  for  'em!" 

''Well,  father,  I  would.  And  when  you  get  the  dirt  off 
they're  mostly  just  folks — just  Indiany,  as  you  call  it. 
They  all  take  my  flower  seeds.  And  they  all  love  bright 
colors  in  their  windows.  And  they  are  spreading  the  glow 
of  blooms  across  the  district,  just  as  well  as  the  Germans  and 
the  French  and  the  Belgians  and  the  Irish.  And  they  are 
here  for  exactly  the  same  thing  which  we  are  here  for,  father. 
We're  all  in  the  same  game." 

He  looked  at  her  blankly,  and  ventured,  ''Money?" 
"No — you  stupid.  You  know  better.  It's  children. 
They're  here  for  their  children — to  lift  their  children  out  of 
poverty.  It's  the  children  who  carry  the  banner  of  civiliza 
tion,  the  hope  of  progress,  the  real  sunrise.  These  people 
are  all  confused  and  more  or  less  dumb  and  loggy  about 
everything  else  in  life  but  this  one  thing;  they  all  hope 
greatly  for  their  children.  For  their  children  they  joyfully 
endure  the  hardships  of  poverty;  the  injustice  of  it;  to  live 
here  in  these  conditions  that  seem  to  us  awful,  and  to  work 
terrible  hours  that  their  children  may  rise  out  of  the  worse 
condition  that  they  left  in  Europe.  And  they  have  left 
Europe,  father,  spiritually  as  well  as  physically.  Here  they 
are  reborn  into  America.  The  first  generation  may  seem 
foreign,  may  hold  foreign  ways — on  the  outside.  But  these 
American  born  boys  and  girls,  they  are  American — as  much 
as  we  are,  with  all  their  foreign  names.  They  are  of  our 
spirit.  When  America  calls  they  will  hear  and  follow. 
Whatever  blood  they  will  shed  will  be  real  American  blood, 
because  as  children,  born  under  the  same  aspiring  genius 
for  freedom  under  which  we  were  born,  as  children  they  be 
came  Americans.  Oh,  father,  it's  for  the  children  that  these 
people  here  in  Harvey — these  exploited  people  everywhere 
in  this  country, — plant  the  flowers  and  brighten  up  their 
homes.  It's  for  their  children  that  they  are  going  with  Grant 
to  organize  for  better  things.  The  fire  of  life  runs  ahead  of 
us  in  hope  for  our  children,  and  if  we  haven't  children  or 
the  love  of  them  in  our  hearts — why,  father,  that's  what's 
eating  Tom's  heart  out,  and  blasting  this  miserable  woman's 
life !  Grant  said  to-day :  '  This  baby  here  symbolizes  all 


GRANT  ADAMS  VISITS  THE  SONS  OF  ESAU     433 

that  I  stand  for,  all  that  I  hope  to  do,  all  that  the  race 
dreams ! ' ' 

The  Doctor  had  lighted  his  pipe,  and  was  puffing  medi 
tatively.  He  liked  to  hear  his  daughter  talk.  He  took  little 
stock  in  what  she  said.  But  when  she  asked  him  for  help — 
he  gave  it  to  her  unstinted,  but  often  with  a  large,  tolerant 
disbelief  in  the  wisdom  of  her  request.  As  she  paused  he 
turned  to  her  quickly,  "Laura — tell  me,  what  do  you  make 
out  of  Grant?" 

He  eyed  her  sharply  as  she  replied :  ' '  Father,  Grant  is  a 
lonely  soul  without  chick  or  child,  and  I'm  sorry  for  him. 
He  goes — " 

"Well,  now,  Laura,"  piped  the  little  man,  "don't  be  too 
sorry.  Sorrow  is  a  dangerous  emotion." 

The  daughter  turned  her  face  to  her  father  frankly  and 
said:  "I  realize  that,  father.  Don't  concern  yourself 
about  that.  But  I  see  Grant  some  way,  eating  the  locusts 
and  wild  honey  in  the  wilderness,  calling  out  to  a  stiff-necked 
generation  to  repent.  His  eyes  are  focussed  on  to-morrow. 
He  expects  an  immediate  millennium.  But  he  is  at  least 
looking  forward,  not  back.  And  the  world  back  of  us  is  so 
full  of  change,  that  I  am  sure  the  world  before  us  also  must 
be  full  of  change,  and  maybe  sometime  we  shall  arrive  at 
Grant's  goal.  He's  not  working  for  himself,  either  in  fame 
cr  in  power,  or  in  any  personal  thing.  He's  just  following 
the  light  as  it  is  given  him  to  see  it,  here  among  the  poor." 

The  daughter  lifted  a  face  full  of  enthusiasm  to  her  father. 
He  puffed  in  silence.  "Well,  my  dear,  that's  a  fine  speech. 
But  when  I  asked  you  about  Grant  I  was  rising  to  a  sort  of 
question  of  personal  privilege.  I  thought  perhaps  I  would 
mix  around  at  his  meeting  to-night !  If  you  think  I  should, 
just  kind  of  stand  around  to  give  him  countenance — and," 
he  chuckled  and  squeaked :  "To  bundle  up  a  few  votes ! ' ' 

"Do,  father — do — you  must!" 

"Well,"  squeaked  the  little  voice,  "so  long  as  I  must  I'm 
glad  to  know  that  Tom  made  it  easy  for  me,  by  turning  all 
of  Harvey  and  the  Valley  over  to  Grant  at  the  riot  last 
night.  Why,  if  Tom  tried  to  stop  Grant's  meeting  to-night 
Market  Street  itself  would  mob  Tom — mob  the  very  Temple 
of  Love."  The  Doctor  chuckled  and  returned  to  his  own 


434  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

affairs.  " Being  on  the  winning  side  isn't  really  important. 
But  it's  like  carrying  a  potato  in  your  pocket  for  rheuma 
tism:  it  gives  a  feller  confidence.  And  after  all,  the  devil's 
rich  and  God's  poor  have  all  got  votes.  And  votes  count!" 
He  grinned  and  revived  his  pipe. 

He  was  about  to  speak  again  when  Laura  interrupted  him, 
"Oh,  father — they're  not  God's  poor,  whose  ever  they  are. 
Don't  say  that.  They're  Daniel  Sands 's  poor,  and  the 
Smelter  Trust's  poor,  and  the  Coal  Trust's  poor,  and  the 
Glass  and  Cement  and  Steel  company's  poor.  I've  learned 
that  down  here.  Why,  if  the  employers  would  only  treat  the 
workers  as  fairly  as  they  treat  the  machines,  keeping  them  fit, 
and  modern  and  bright,  God  would  have  no  poor ! ' ' 

The  Doctor  rose  and  stretched  and  smiled  indulgently  at 
his  daughter.  "Heigh-ho  the  green  holly,"  he  droned. 
"Well,  have  it  your  way.  God's  poor  or  Dan's  poor,  they're 
my  votes,  if  I  can  get  'em.  So  we'll  come  to  the  meeting  to 
night  and  blow  a  few  mouthfuls  on  the  fires  of  revolution, 
for  the  good  of  the  order ! ' ' 

He  would  have  gone,  but  his  daughter  begged  him  to  stay 
and  dine  with  her  in  South  Harvey,  before  they  went  to  the 
meeting.  So  for  an  hour  the  Doctor  sat  in  his  daughter's 
office  by  the  window,  sometimes  giving  attention  to  the  drab 
flood  of  humanity  passing  along  the  street  as  the  shifts 
changed  for  evening  in  the  mines  and  smelters,  and  then 
listening  to  the  day's  stragglers  who  came  and  went  through 
his  daughter's  office:  A  father  for  medicine  for  a  child,  a 
mother  for  advice,  a  breaker  boy  for  a  book,  a  little  girl  from 
the  glass  works  for  a  bright  bit  of  sewing  upon  which  she 
was  working,  a  woman  from  Violet  Hogan's  room  with  a 
heartbreak  in  her  problem,  a  group  of  women  from  little 
Italy  with  a  complaint  about  a  disorderly  neighbor  in  their 
tenement,  a  cripple  from  the  mines  to  talk  over  his  career, 
whether  it  should  be  pencils  or  shoe  strings,  or  a  hand  organ, 
or  some  attempt  at  handicraft;  the  head  of  a  local  labor 
union  paying  some  pittance  to  Laura,  voted  by  the  men  to 
help  her  with  her  work;  a  shy  foreign  woman  with  a  badly 
spelled  note  from  her  neighbor,  asking  for  flower  seeds  and 
directions  translated  by  Laura  into  the  woman's  own  lan 
guage  telling  how  to  plant  the  seeds;  a  belated  working 


GRANT  ADAMS  VISITS  THE  SONS  OF  ESAU     435 

mother  calling  for  the  last  little  tot  in  the  nursery  and  ex 
plaining  her  delay.  Laura  heard  them  all  and  so  far  as  she 
could,  she  served  them  all.  The  Doctor  was  vastly  proud 
of  the  effective  way  in  which  she  dispatched  her  work. 

It  was  six  o  'clock,  but  the  summer  sun  still  was  high  and 
the  traffic  in  the  street  was  thick.  For  a  time,  while  a 
woman  with  a  child  with  shriveled  legs  was  talking  to  Laura 
about  the  child's  education,  the  Doctor  sat  gazing  into  the 
street.  When  the  room  was  empty,  he  exclaimed,  "It's  a 
long  weary  way  from  the  sunshine  and  prairie  grass,  child! 
How  it  all  has  changed  with  the  years!  Ten  years  ago  I 
knew  'em  all,  the  men  and  the  employers.  Now  they  are 
all  newcomers — men  and  masters.  Why,  I  don't  even  know 
their  nationalities ;  I  don 't  even  know  what  part  of  the  earth 
they  come  from.  And  such  sad-faced  droves  of  them;  so 
many  little  scamps,  underfed,  badly  housed  for  generations. 
The  big,  strapping  Irish  and  Germans  and  Scotch  and  the 
wide-chested  little  Welshmen,  and  the  agile  French — how 
few  of  them  there  are  compared  with  this  slow-moving  horde 
of  runts  from  God  knows  where !  It's  been  a  long  time  since 
I've  been  down  here  to  see  a  shift  change,  Laura.  Lord — 
Lord  have  mercy  on  these  people — for  no  one  else  seems  to 
care!" 

"Amen,  and  Amen,  father,"  answered  the  daughter. 
"These  are  the  people  that  Grant  is  trying  to  stir  to  con 
sciousness.  These  are  the  people  who — " 

' '  Well,  yes, ' '  he  turned  a  sardonic  look  upon  his  daughter, 
"they're  the  boys  who  voted  against  me  the  last  time  because 
Tom  and  Dan  hired  a  man  in  every  precinct  to  spread  the 
story  that  I  was  a  teetotaler,  and  that  your  mother  gave  a 
party  on  Good  Friday — and  all  because  Tom  and  Dan  were 
mad  at  me  for  pushing  that  workingmen's  compensation 
bill !  But  now  I  look  at  'em — I  don 't  blame  'em !  What  do 
they  know  about  workingmen's  compensation !"  The  Doctor 
stopped  and  chuckled;  then  he  burst  out:  "I  tell  you, 
Laura,  when  a  man  gets  enough  sense  to  stand  by  his  friends 
— he  no  longer  needs  friends.  When  these  people  get  wise 
enough  not  to  be  fooled  by  Tom  and  old  Dan,  they  won't 
need  Grant!  In  the  meantime — just  look  at  'em — look  at 
'em  paying  twice  as  much  for  rent  as  they  pay  up  town: 


436  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

gouged  at  the  company  stores  down  here  for  their  food  and 
clothing ;  held  up  by  loan  sharks  when  they  borrow  money ; 
doped  with  aloes  in  their  beer,  and  fusil  oil  in  their  whiskey, 
wrapped  up  in  shoddy  clothes  and  paper  shoes,  having  their 
pockets  picked  by  weighing  frauds  at  the  mines,  and  their 
bodies  mashed  in  speed-up  devices  in  the  mills;  stabled  in 
filthy  shacks  without  water  or  sewers  or  electricity  which  we 
uptown  people  demand  and  get  for  the  same  money  that  they 
pay  for  these  hog-pens — why,  hell's  afire  and  the  cows  are  out 
— Laura!  by  Godfrey's  diamonds,  if  I  lived  down  here  I'd  get 
me  some  frisky  dynamite  and  blow  the  whole  place  into 
kindling."  He  sat  blinking  his  indignation;  then  began  to 
smile.  ''Instead  of  which,"  he  squeaked,  "I  shall  endeavor 
by  my  winning  ways  to  get  their  votes."  He  waved  a  gay 
hand  and  added,  "And  with  God  be  the  rest!" 

Towering  above  a  group  of  workers  from  the  South  of  Eu 
rope — a  delegation  from  the  new  wire  mill  in  Plain  Valley, 
Grant  Adams  came  swinging  down  the  street,  a  Gulliver 
among  his  Lilliputians.  Although  it  was  not  even  twilight, 
it  was  evident  to  the  Doctor  that  something  more  than  the 
changing  shifts  in  the  mills  was  thickening  the  crowds  in  the 
street.  Little  groups  were  forming  at  the  corners,  good-na 
tured  groups  who  seemed  to  know  that  they  were  not  to  be 
molested.  And  the  Doctor  at  his  window  watched  Grant 
passing  group  after  group,  receiving  its  unconscious  homage ; 
just  a  look,  or  a  waving  hand,  or  an  affectionate,  half-abashed 
little  cheer,  or  the  turning  of  a  group  of  heads  all  one  way 
to  catch  Grant's  eyes  as  he  passed. 

At  the  Captain's  vacant  lot,  Grant  rose  before  a  cheering 
throng  that  filled  the  lot,  and  overflowed  the  sidewalk  and 
crowded  far  down  the  street.  Two  flickering  torches  flared 
at  his  head.  An  electric  in  front  of  the  Hot  Dog  and  a  big 
arc-light  over  the  door  of  the  smelter  lighted  the  upturned 
faces  of  the  multitude.  When  the  crowd  had  ceased  cheer 
ing,  Grant,  looking  into  as  many  eyes  of  his  hearers  as  he 
could  catch,  began : 

"I  have  come  to  talk  to  Esau — the  disinherited — to  Esau 
who  has  forfeited  his  birthright.  I  am  here  to  speak  to 
those  who  are  toiling  in  the  world's  rough  work  unrequited 
— I  am  here,  one  of  the  poor  to  talk  to  the  poor. ' ' 


GRANT  ADAMS  VISITS  THE  SONS  OF  ESAU     437 

His  voice  held  back  so  much  of  his  strength,  his  gaunt, 
awkward  figure  under  the  uncertain  torches,  his  wide,  impas 
sioned  gestures,  with  the  carpenter's  nail  claw  always  before 
his  hearers,  made  him  a  strange  kind  of  specter  in  the 
night.  Yet  the  simplicity  of  his  manner  and  the  directness 
of  his  appeal  went  to  the  hearts  of  his  hearers.  The  first 
part  of  his  message  was  one  of  peace.  He  told  the  workers 
that  every  inch  they  gained  they  lost  when  they  tried  to 
overcome  cunning  with  force.  "The  dynamiter  tears  the 
ground  from  under  labor — not  from  under  capital;  he 
strengthens  capital,"  said  Grant.  "Every  time  I  hear  of  a 
bomb  exploding  in  a  strike,  or  of  a  scab  being  killed  I  think 
of  the  long,  hard  march  back  that  organized  labor  must  make 
to  retrieve  its  lost  ground.  And  then,"  he  cried  passion 
ately,  and  the  mad  fanatic  glare  lighted  his  face,  "my  soul 
revolts  at  the  iniquity  of  those  who,  by  craft  and  cunning 
while  we  work,  teach  us  the  false  doctrine  of  the  strength  of 
force,  and  then  when  we  use  what  they  have  taught  us, 
point  us  out  in  scorn  as  lawbreakers.  Whether  they  pay 
cash  to  the  man  who  touched  the  fuse  or  fired  the  gun  or 
whether  they  merely  taught  us  to  use  bombs  arid  guns  by 
the  example  of  their  own  lawlessness,  theirs  is  the  sin,  and 
ours  the  punishment.  Esau  still  has  lost  his  birthright — 
still  is  disinherited." 

He  spoke  for  a  time  upon  the  aims  of  organization,  and 
set  forth  the  doctrine  of  class  solidarity.  He  told  labor 
that  in  its  ranks  altruism,  neighborly  kindness  that  is  the 
surest  basis  of  progress,  has  a  thousand  disintegrated  ex 
pressions.  "The  kindness  of  the  poor  to  the  poor,  if  ex 
pressed  in  terms  of  money,  would  pay  the  National  debt  over 
night,"  he  said,  and,  letting  out  his  voice,  and  releasing  his 
strength,  he  begged  the  men  and  women  who  work  and  sweat 
at  their  work  to  give  that  altruism  some  form  and  direction, 
to  put  it  into  harness — to  form  it  into  ranks,  drilled  for 
usefulness.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  day  when  class  conscious 
ness  would  not  be  needed,  when  the  unions  would  have  served 
their  mission,  when  the  class  wrong  that  makes  the  class 
suffering  and  thus  marks  the  class  line,  would  disappear  just 
as  they  have  disappeared  in  the  classes  that  have  risen  dur 
ing  the  last  two  centuries. 


438  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Oh,  Esau,"  he  cried  in  the  voice  that  men  called  insane 
because  of  its  intensity,  "your  birthright  is  not  gone.  It 
lies  in  your  own  heart.  Quicken  your  heart  with  love — and 
no  matter  what  you  have  lost,  nor  what  you  have  mourned  in 
despair,  in  so  much  as  you  love  shall  it  all  be  restored  to 
you." 

They  did  not  cheer  as  he  talked.  But  they  stood  leaning 
forward  intently  listening.  Some  of  his  hearers  had  ex 
pected  to  hear  class  hatred  preached.  Others  were  expecting 
to  hear  the  man  lash  his  enemies  and  many  had  assumed 
that  he  would  denounce  those  who  had  committed  the  mis 
takes  of  the  night  before.  Instead  of  giving  his  hearers 
these  things,  he  preached  a  gospel  of  peace  and  love  and 
hope.  His  hearers  did  not  understand  that  the  maimed, 
lean,  red-faced  man  before  them  was  dipping  deeply  into 
their  souls  and  that  they  were  considering  many  things 
which  they  had  not  questioned  before. 

When  he  plunged  into  the  practical  part  of  his  speech, 
an  explanation  of  the  allied  unions  of  the  Valley,  he  told  in 
detail  something  of  the  ten  years'  struggle  to  bring  all  the 
unions  together  under  one  industrial  council  in  the  Wahoo 
Valley,  and  listed  something  of  the  strength  of  the  organiza 
tion.  He  declared  that  the  time  had  come  for  the  organiza 
tion  to  make  a  public  fight  for  recognition ;  that  organization 
in  secret  and  under  cover  was  no  longer  honorable.  "The 
employers  are  frankly  and  publicly  allied/'  said  Grant. 
"They  have  their  meetings  to  talk  over  matters  of  common 
interest.  Why  should  not  the  unions  do  the  same  thing? 
The  smelter  men,  the  teamsters,  the  miners,  the  carpenters, 
the  steel  workers,  the  painters,  the  glass  workers,  the  print 
ers — all  the  organized  men  and  women  in  this  district  have 
the  same  common  interests  that  their  employers  have,  and  we 
should  in  no  wise  be  ashamed  of  our  organization.  This 
meeting  is  held  to  proclaim  our  pride  in  the  common  ground 
upon  which  organized  labor  stands  with  organized  capital  in 
the  Wahoo  Valley." 

He  called  the  rolls  of  the  unions  in  the  trades  council  and 
for  an  hour  men  stood  and  responded  and  reported  condi 
tions  among  workers  in  their  respective  trades.  It  was  an 
impressive  roll  call.  After  their  organization  had  been  com- 


GRANT  ADAMS  VISITS  THE  SONS  OF  ESAU     439 

pleted,  a  great  roar  of  pride  rose  and  Grant  Adams  threw 
out  his  steel  claw  and  leaning  forward  cried : 

"We  have  come  to  bring  brotherhood  into  this  earth.  For 
in  the  union  every  man  sacrifices  something  to  the  common 
good;  mutual  help  means  mutual  sacrifice,  and  self-denial 
is  brotherly  love.  Fraternity  and  democracy  are  synony 
mous.  We  must  rise  together  by  self-help.  I  know  how 
easy  it  is  for  the  rich  man  to  become  poor.  I  know  that 
often  the  poor  man  becomes  rich.  But  when  Esau  throws 
off  the  yoke  of  Jacob,  when  the  poor  shall  rise  and  come  into 
their  own,  the  rise  shall  not  be  as  individuals,  but  as  a  class. 
The  glass  workers  are  better  paid  than  the  teamsters;  but 
their  interests  are  common,  and  the  better  paid  workers  can 
not  rise  except  their  poorly  paid  fellow  workmen  rise  with 
them.  It  is  a  class  problem  and  it  must  have  a  class  solu 
tion." 

Grant  Adams  stood  staring  at  the  crowd.  Then  he 
spread  out  his  two  gaunt  arms  and  closed  his  eyes  and 
cried:  "Oh,  Esau,  Esau,  you  were  faint  and  hungry  in 
that  elder  day  when  you  drank  the  red  pottage  arid  sold 
yonr  birthright.  But  did  you  know  when  you  bartered  it 
away,  that  in  that  bargain  went  your  children's  souls? 
Down  here  in  the  Valley,  live  babies  die  in  infancy  where 
one  dies  up  there  on  the  hill.  Ninety  per  cent,  of  the  boys  in 
jail  come  from  the  homes  in  the  Valley  and  ten  per  cent, 
from  the  homes  on  the  hill.  And  the  girls  who  go  out  in 
the  night,  never  to  come  home — poor  girls  always.  Crime 
and  shame  and  death  were  in  that  red  pottage,  and  its  bit 
terness  still  burns  our  hearts.  And  why — why  in  the  name 
of  our  loving  Christ  who  knew  the  wicked  bargain  Jacob 
made — why  is  our  birthright  gone?  Why  does  Esau  still 
serve  his  brother  unrequited?"  Then  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  cried  stridently — -"I'll,  tell  you  why.  The  poor  are 
poor  because  the  rich  are  rich.  We  have  been  working  a 
decade  and  a  half  in  this  Valley,  and  profits,  not  new  capi 
tal,  have  developed  it.  Profits  that  should  have  been  divided 
with  labor  in  wages  have  gone  to  buy  new  machines — miles 
and  miles  of  new  machines  have  come  here,  bought  and  paid 
for  with  the  money  that  labor  earned,  and  because  we  have 
not  the  machines  which  our  labor  has  bought,  we  are  poor — 


440  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

we  are  working  long  hours  amid  squalor  surrounded  with 
death  and  crime  and  shame.  Oh,  Esau,  Esau,  what  a  pottage 
it  was  that  you  drank  in  the  elder  day !  Oh,  Jacob,  Jacob, 
wrestle,  wrestle  with  thy  conscience ;  wrestle  with  thy  accus 
ing  Lord;  wrestle,  Jacob,  wrestle,  for  the  day  is  breaking 
and  we  will  not  let  thee  go !  How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long 
will  you  hold  us  to  that  cruel  bargain ! ' ' 

He  paused  as  one  looking  for  an  answer — hesitant,  eager, 
expectant.  Then  he  drew  a  long  breath,  turned  slowly  and 
sadly  and  walked  away. 

No  cheer  followed  him.  The  crowd  was  stirred  too 
deeply  for  cheers.  But  the  seed  he  had  sown  quickened  in 
a  thousand  hearts  even  if  in  some  hearts  it  fell  among 
thorns,  even  if  in  some  it  fell  upon  stony  ground.  The 
sower  had  gone  forth  to  sow. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

BEING  NO   CHAPTER  AT   ALL   BUT   AN   INTERMEZZO  BEFORE   THE 
LAST    MOVEMENT 

THE  stage  is  dark.  In  the  dim  distance  something  is 
moving.  It  is  a  world  hurrying  through  space. 
Somewhat  in  the  foreground  but  enveloped  in  the 
murk  sit  three  figures.  They  are  tending  a  vast  loom.  Its 
myriad  threads  run  through  illimitable  space  and  the  woof 
of  the  loom  is  time.  The  three  figures  weaving  through  the 
dark  do  not  know  whence  comes  the  power  that  moves  the 
loom  eternally.  They  have  not  asked.  They  work  in  the 
pitch  of  night. 

From  afar  in  the  earth  comes  a  voice — high-keyed  and 
gentle : 

A  VOICE,  pianissimo: 

1 '  This  business  of  governing  a  sovereign  people  is  losing  its 
savor.  I  must  be  getting  some  kind  of  spiritual  necrosis. 
Generally  speaking,  about  all  the  real  pleasure  a  grand  llama 
of  politics  finds  in  life,  is  in  counting  his  ingrates — his  gov 
ernors  and  senators  and  congressmen!  Why,  George,  it's 
been  nearly  ten  years  since  I've  cussed  out  a  senator  or  a 
governor,  yet  I  read  Browning  with  joy  and  the  last  time 
I  heard  Beethoven's  Fifth  Symphony,  I  went  stark  mad. 
But  woe  is  me,  George !  Woe  is  me.  When  the  Judge  and 
Dan  Sands  named  the  postmaster  last  month  without  con 
sulting  me,  I  didn't  care.  I  tell  you,  George,  I  must  be 
getting  old!" 

SECOND  VOICE,  fortissimo: 

"No,  Doc — you're  not  getting  old — why,  you're  not  sixty 
— a  mere  spring  chicken  yet — and  Dan  Sands  is  seventy- 
five  if  he's  a  day.  What's  the  matter  with  you  in  this  here 
Zeitgeist  that  Carlyle  talks  about!  It's  this  restless  little 
time  spirit  that's  the  matter  with  you.  You're  all  broke 

441 


442  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

out  and  sick  abed  with  the  Zeitgeist.  You've  got  no  more 
necrosis  than  a  Belgian  hare's  got  paresis — I'm  right  here  to 
tell  you  and  my  diagnosis  goes. ' ' 

THIRD  VOICE,  adagio: 

il  James,  my  guides  say  that  we're  beginning  a  great  move 
ment  from  the  few  to  the  many.  That  is  their  expression. 
Cromwell  thinks  it  means  economic  changes;  but  I  was 
talking  with  Jefferson  the  other  night  and  he  says  no — it 
means  political  changes  in  order  to  get  economic.  He  says 
Tilden  tells  him—" 

THE  SECOND  VOICE,  fortissimo: 

"Who  cares  what  Tilden  says!  My  noodle  tells  me  that 
there's  to  be  a  big  do  in  this  world,  and  my  control  tinkles 
the  cash  register,  pops  into  the  profit  account,  eats  up  ten 
cent  magazines,  and  gets  away  with  five  feet  of  literary 
dynamite  fuse  every  week.  I'm  that  old  Commodore  Noah 
that's  telling  you  to  get  out  your  rubbers  for  the  flood." 

THE  FIRST  VOICE,  andante  con  expression: 

"It's  a  queer  world — a  mighty  queer  world.  Here's 
Laura's  kindergarten  growing  until  it  joins  with  Violet  Ho- 
gan's  day  nursery  and  Laura's  flower  seeds  splashing  color 
out  of  God's  sunshine  in  front  yards  clear  down  to  Plain 
Valley.  Money  coming  in  about  as  they  need  it.  Dan 
Sands  and  Morty,  Wright  and  Perry  and  the  Dago  saloon 
keeper,  Joe  Calvin,  John  Dexter  and  the  gamblers — all  the 
robbers,  high  and  low,  dividing  their  booty.  With  all  the 
prosperity  we  are  having,  with  all  the  opening  of  mills  and 
factories — it's  getting  easier  to  make  money  and  consequently 
harder  to  respect  it.  The  more  money  there  is,  the  less  it 
buys,  and  that  is  true  in  public  sentiment  just  as  it  is  in  gro 
ceries  and  furniture.  Do  you  fellows  realize  that  it's  been 
ten  years  since  the  Times  has  run  any  of  those  '  Pen  Portraits 
of  Self -Made  Men"?"  A  silence,  then  the  voice  continues: 

"George,  I  honestly  believe,  if  money  keeps  getting 
crowded  farther  and  farther  into  the  background  of  life — 
we'll  develop  an  honest  politician.  We  know  that  to  give  a 
bribe  is  just  as  bad  as  to  take  one.  Think  of  the  men  de 
bauched  with  money  disguised  as  campaign  expenses,  or  with 
offices  or  with  franks  and  passes  and  pull  and  power!  Think 
of  all  the  bad  government  fostered,  all  the  injustices  legal- 


AN  INTERMEZZO  443 

ized,  just  to  win  a  sordid  game !  The  best  I  can  do  now  is  to 
cry,  *  Lord  have  mercy  on  me,  a  sinner !  The  harlot  and  the 
thief  are  my  betters. '  ' : 

The  voices  cease.  The  earth  whirls  on.  The  brooding 
spirits  at  the  loom  muse  in  silence,  for  they  need  no  voices. 

THE  FIRST  FATE  :  ' '  The  birds !  The  birds  !  I  seemed  to 
hear  the  night  birds  twittering  to  bring  in  the  dawn." 

THE  SECOND  FATE  :  '  *  The  birds  do  not  bring  in  the  dawn. 
The  dawn  comes." 

THE  FIRST  FATE:  "But  always  and  always  before  the 
day,  we  hear  these  voices." 

THE  THIRD  FATE:  "World  after  world  threads  its  time 
through  our  loom.  We  watch  the  pattern  grow.  Days  and 
eras  and  ages  pass.  We  know  nothing  of  meanings.  We 
only  weave.  We  know  that  the  pattern  brightens  as  new 
days  come  and  always  voices  in  the  dark  tell  us  of  the 
changing  pattern  of  a  new  day." 

THE  FIRST  FATE:  "But  the  birds — the  birds!  I  seem 
to  hear  the  night  birds'  voices  that  make  the  dawn." 

THE  SECOND  FATE  :  ' '  They  are  not  birds  calling,  but  the 
whistle  of  shot  and  shell  and  the  shrill,  far  cries  of  man  in 
air.  But  still  I  say  the  dawn  comes,  the  voices  do  not  bring 
it." 

THE  THIRD  FATE  :  * '  We  do  not  know  how  the  awakening 
voices  in  the  dark  know  that  the  light  is  coming.  We  do  not 
know  what  power  moves  the  loom.  We  do  not  know  who 
dreams  the  pattern.  We  only  weave  and  muse  and  listen 
for  the  voices  of  change  as  a  world  threads  its  events  through 
the  woof  of  time  on  our  loom." 

The  stage  is  dark.  The  weavers  weave  time  into  circum 
stances  and  in  the  blackness  the  world  moves  on.  Slowly  it 
grays.  A  thousand  voices  rise.  Then  circumstance  begins 
to  run  brightly  on  the  loom,  and  a  million  voices  join  in  the 
din  of  the  dawn.  The  loom  goes.  The  weavers  fade.  The 
light  in  the  world  pales  the  thread  of  time  and  the  whirl  of 
the  earth  no  longer  is  seen.  But  instead  we  see  only  a  town. 
Half  of  it  shines  in  the  morning  sun — half  of  it  hides  in  the 
smoke.  In  the  sun  on  the  street  is  a  man. 


CHAPTER  XL 

HERE    WE    HAVE    THE    FELLOW    AND    THE    GIRL    BEGINNING    TO 
PREPARE  FOR  THE  LAST    CHAPTER 

A  TALL,  spare,  middle-aged  person  was  Thomas  Van 
Dorn  in  the  latter  years  of  the  first  decade  of  the 
twentieth  century ;  tall  and  spare  and  tight-skinned. 
The  youthful  olive  texture  of  the  skin  was  worn  off  and  had 
been  replaced  by  a  leathery  finish — rather  reddish  brown  in 
color.  The  slight  squint  of  his  eyes  was  due  somewhat  to  the 
little  puffs  under  them,  and  a  suspicious,  crafty  air  had 
grown  into  the  full  orbs,  which  once  glowed  with  emotion, 
when  the  younger  man  mounted  in  his  oratorical  flights.  His 
hands  were  gloved  to  match  his  exactly  formal  clothes,  and 
his  hat — a  top-hat  when  Judge  Van  Dorn  was  in  the  East, 
and  a  sawed-off  compromise  with  the  local  prejudice  against 
top-hats  when  he  was  in  Harvey — was  always  in  the  latest 
mode.  Often  the  hat  was  made  to  match  his  clothes.  He 
had  become  rigorous  in  his  taste  in  neckties  and  only  grays 
and  blacks  and  browns  adorned  the  almost  monkish  severity 
of  his  garb.  Harsh,  vertical  lines  had  begun  to  appear  at 
the  sides  of  the  sensuous  mouth,  and  horizontal  lines — per 
haps  of  hurt  pride  and  shame — were  pressed  into  his  wide, 
handsome  forehead  and  the  zigzag  scar  was  set  white  in  a 
reddening  field. 

All  these  things  a  photograph  would  show.  But  there  was 
that  about  his  carriage,  about  his  mien,  about  the  personality 
that  emerged  from  all  these  things  which  the  photograph 
would  not  show.  For  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  known 
him  in  the  flush  of  his  youth,  something — perhaps  it  was 
time,  perhaps  the  burden  of  the  years — seemed  to  be  sapping 
him,  seemed  to  be  drying  him  out,  fruitless,  pod-laden,  dry 
and  listless,  with  a  bleached  soul,  naked  to  the  winds  that 
blow  across  the  world.  The  myriad  criss-crosses  of  minute  red 
veins  that  marked  his  cheek  often  were  wet  with  water  from 

444 


THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  445 

the  eyes  that  used  to  glow  out  of  a  very  volcano  of  a  person 
ality  behind  them.  But  after  many  hours  of  charging  up 
and  down  the  earth  in  his  great  noisy  motor,  red  rims  be 
gan  to  form  about  the  watery  eyes  and  they  peered  fiirtively 
and  savagely  at  the  world,  like  wolves  from  a  falling  temple. 

As  he  stood  by  the  fire  in  Mr.  Brotherton's  sanctuary, 
holding  his  Harper's  Weekly  in  his  hand,  and  glancing  idly 
over  the  new  books  carelessly  arranged  on  the  level  of  the 
eye  upon  the  wide  oak  mantel,  the  Judge  came  to  be  con 
scious  of  the  presence  of  Amos  Adams  on  a  settee  near  by. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  The  habit  of  speaking  to  every 
one  persisted,  but  the  suave  manner  was  affected,  and  the 
voice  was  mechanical.  The  old  man  looked  up  from  his 
book — one  of  Professor  Hyslop's  volumes,  and  answered, 
"Why,  hello,  Tom — how  are  you?"  and  ducked  back  to  his 
browsing. 

"That  son  of  yours  doesn't  seem  to  have  set  the  Wahoo 
afire  with  his  unions  in  the  last  two  or  three  years,  does  he?" 
said  Van  Dorn.  He  could  not  resist  taking  this  poke  at  the 
old  man,  who  replied  without  looking  up : 

"Probably  not." 

Then  fearing  that  he  might  have  been  curt  the  old  man 
lifted  his  eyes  from  his  book  and  looking  kindly  over  his 
glasses  continued:  "The  Wahoo  isn't  ablaze,  Tom,  but  you 
know  as  well  as  I  that  the  wage  scale  has  been  raised  twice 
in  the  mines,  and  once  in  the  glass  factory  and  once  in  the 
smelter  in  the  past  three  years  without  strikes — and  that's 
what  Grant  is  trying  to  do.  More  than  that,  every  concern 
in  the  Valley  now  recognizes  the  union  in  conferring  with 
the  men  about  work  conditions.  That's  something — that's 
worth  all  his  time  for  three  years  or  so,  if  he  had  done  noth 
ing  else." 

"Well,  what  else  has  he  done?"  asked  Van  Dorn  quickly. 

"Well,  Tom,  for  one  thing  the  men  are  getting  class  con 
scious,  and  in  a  strike  that  will  be  a  strong  cement  to  make 
them  stick. ' ' 

Van  Dorn's  neck  reddened,  as  he  replied:  "Yes — the 
damn  anarchists — class  consciousness  is  what  undermines 
patriotism." 

"And   patriotism,"  replied  the  old  man,  thumbing  the 


446  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

lapel  of  his  coat  that  held  his  loyal  legion  button,  "patriotism 
is  the  last  resort — of  plutocrats!" 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  and  silently.  Then  he  rose 
and  said  as  he  started  to  go : 

"Well,  Tom, — we  won't  quarrel  over  a  little  thing  like 
our  beloved  country.  Why,  Lila— "  the  old  man  looked  up 
and  saw  the  girl,  "bless  my  eyes,  child,  how  you  do  grow, 
and  how  pretty  you  look  in  your  new  ginghams— just  like 
your  mother,  twenty  years  ago !"  Amos  Adams  was  talking 
to  a  shy  young  girl— blue-eyed  and  brown-haired,  who  was 
walking  out  of  the  store  after  buying  a  bottle  of  ink  of  Miss 
Calvin.  Lila  spoke  to  the  old  man  and  would  have  gone 
With  him,  but  for  the  booming  voice  of  Mr.  Brotherton,  the 
gray-clad  benedict,  who  looked  not  unlike  the  huge,  pot 
bellied  gray  jars  which  adorned  "the  sweet  serenity  of  books 
and  wall  paper. ' ' 

Mr.  Brotherton  had  glanced  up  from  his  ledger  at  Amos 
Adams's  mention  of  Lila's  name.  Coming  forward,  he  saw 
her  in  her  new  dress,  a  bright  gingham  dress  that  reached 
So  nearly  to  her  shoe  tops  that  Mr.  Brotherton  cried :  * '  Well, 
look  who's  here— if  it  isn't  Miss  Van  Dorn!  And  a  great 
pleasure  it  is  to  see  and  know, you,  Miss  Van  Dorn." 

lie  repeated  the  name  two  or  three  times  gently,  while 
Lila  smiled  in  shy  appreciation  of  Mr.  Brotherton 's  ambushed 
joke.  Her  father,  standing  by  a  squash-necked  lavender  jug 
in  the  "serenity,"  did  not  entirely  grasp  Mr.  Brother-ton's 
point.  But  while  the  father  was  groping  for  it,  Mr.  Brother- 
ton  went  on: 

"Miss  Van  Dorn,  once  I  had  a  dear  friend — such  a  dear 
little  friend  named  Lila.  Perhaps  you  may  see  her  some 
times?  Maybe  sometimes  at  night  she  comes  to  see  you — 
maybe  she  peeps  in  when  you  are  alone  and  asks  to  play. 
Well,  say— Lila,"  called  Mr.  Brotherton  as  gently  as  a  fog 
horn  tooting  a  nocturne,  "if  she  ever  comes,  if  you  ever  see 
her,  will  you  give  her  my  love?  It  would  be  highly  im 
proper  for  a  married  gentleman  with  asthmatic  tendencies 
and  too  much  waistband  to  send  his  love  or  anything  like 
it  to  Miss  Van  Dorn;  it  would  surely  cause  comment.  But 
if  Lila  ever  comes,  Miss  Van  Dorn,"  frolicked  the  elephant, 
"give  her  my  love  and  tell  her  that  often  here  in  the 


THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  447 

serenity,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  see  her  playing  out  on  Elm 
Street,  a  teenty,  weenty  girl — with  blue  hair  and  curly  eyes 
— or  maybe  it  was  the  other  way  around,"  Mr.  Brotherton 
heaved  a  prodigious  sigh  and  waved  a  weary,  fat  hand — 
"and  here,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  is  Miss  Van  Dorn  with 
her  dresses  down  to  her  shoe  tops ! ' ' 

The  girl  was  smiling  and  blushing,  sheepishly  and  happily, 
while  Mr.  Brotherton  was  mentally  calculating  that  he  would 
be  in  his  middle  fifties  before  a  possible  little  girl  of  his 
might  be  putting  on  her  first  long  dresses.  It  saddened  him 
a  little,  and  he  turned,  rather  subdued,  and  called  into  the 
alcove  to  the  Judge  and  said : 

"Tom,  this  is  our  friend,  Miss  Van  Dorn — I  was  just  send 
ing  a  message  by  her  to  a  dear — a  very  dear  friend  I  used 
to  have,  named  Lila,  who  is  gone.  Miss  Van  Dorn  knows 
Lila,  and  sees  her  sometimes.  So  now  that  you  are  here, 
I'm  going  to  send  this  to  Lila,"  he  raised  the  girl's  hand  to 
his  lips  and  awkwardly  kissed  it,  as  he  said  clumsily,  "well, 
say,  my  dear — will  you  see  that  Lila  gets  that?" 

Her  father  stepped  toward  the  embarrassed  girl  and  spoke: 

"Lila — Lila — can't  you  come  here  a  moment,  dear?" 

He  was  standing  by  the  smoldering  fire,  brushing  a  rolled 
newspaper  against  his  leg.  Something  within  him — per 
haps  Mr.  Brotherton 's  awkward  kiss  stirred  it — was  trying 
to  soften  the  proud,  hard  face  that  was  losing  the  mobility 
which  once  had  been  its  charm.  He  held  out  a  hand,  and 
leaned  toward  the  girl.  She  stepped  toward  him  and  asked, 
"What  is  it?" 

An  awkward  pause  followed,  which  the  man  broke  with, 
"Well — nothing  in  particular,  child;  only  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  like — well,  tell  me  how  are  you  getting  along  in  High 
School,  little  girl." 

"Oh,  very  well;  I  believe,"  she  answered,  but  did  not  lift 
her  eyes  to  his.  Mr.  Brotherton  moved  back  to  his  desk. 
Again  there  was  silence.  The  girl  did  not  move  away, 
though  the  father  feared  through  every  painful  second  that 
she  would.  Finally  he  said:  "I  hear  your  mother  is  get 
ting  on  famously  down  in  South  Harvey.  Our  people  down 
there  say  she  is  doing  wonders  with  her  cooking  club  for 
girls." 


448  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Lila  smiled  and  answered:  "She'll  be  glad  to  know  it, 
I'm  sure."  Again  she  paused,  and  waited. 

"Lila,"  he  cried,  "won't  you  let  me  help  you — do  some 
thing  for  you? — I  wish  so  much — so  much  to  fill  a  father's 
place  with  you,  my  dear — so  much." 

He  stepped  toward  her,  felt  for  her  hand,  but  could  not 
find  it.  She  looked  up  at  him,  and  in  her  eyes  there  rose 
the  old  cloud  of  sadness  that  came  only  once  in  a  long  time. 
It  was  a  puzzled  face  that  he  saw  looking  steadily  into  his. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  could  do,"  she  answered  simply. 

Something  about  the  pathetic  loneliness  of  his  unfathered 
child,  evidenced  by  the  sadness  that  flitted  across  her  face, 
touched  a  remote,  unsullied  part  of  his  nature,  and  moved 
him  to  say : 

"Oh,  Lila — Lila — Lila — I  need  you — I  need  you — God 
knows,  dear,  how  I  do  need  you.  Won't  you  come  to  me 
sometimes?  Won't  your  mother  ever  relent — won't  she? 
If  she  knew,  she  would  be  kind.  Oh,  Lila,  Lila,"  he  called 
as  the  two  stood  together  there  in  the  twilight  with  the  glow 
of  the  coals  in  the  fireplace  upon  them,  "Lila,  won't  you  let 
me  take  you  home  even — in  my  car?  Surely  your  mother 
wouldn  't  care  for  that,  would  she  ? ' ' 

The  girl  looked  into  the  fire  and  answered,  "No,"  and 
shook  her  head.  "No — mother  would  be  pleased,  I  think. 
She  has  always  told  me  to  be  kind  to  you — to  be  respectful 
to  you,  sir.  I've  tried  to  be,  sir?" 

Her  voice  rose  in  a  question.  He  answered  by  taking  her 
arm  and  pleading,  "Oh,  come — won't  you  let  me  take  you 
home  in  my  car,  Lila — it's  getting  late — won't  you,  Lila?" 

But  the  girl  turned  away;  he  let  her  arm  drop.  She  an 
swered,  shaking  her  head : 

"I  think,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind — I'd  rather  walk." 

In  another  second  she  was  gone.  Her  father  leaned 
against  the  mantel  and  the  dying  coals  warmed  tears  in  his 
hungry,  furtive  eyes,  and  his  face  twitched  for  a  moment 
before  he  turned,  and  walked  with  some  show  of  pride  to  his 
grand  car.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was  driving  homeward, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  when  his  ear 
caught  the  word,  "Lila,"  in  a  girlish  treble  near  him.  He 
looked  up  to  see  a  young  miss — a  Calvin  young  miss,  in  fact 


THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  449 

— running  and  waving  her  hands  toward  a  group  of  boys  and 
girls  in  their  middle  teens  and  late  teens,  trooping  up  the 
hill  along  the  sidewalk.  They  were  neighborhood  children, 
and  Lila  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  the  circle.  He  slowed 
down  his  car  to  watch  them.  Near  Lila  was  Kenyon  Adams, 
a  tall,  beautiful  youth,  fiddle  box  in  hand,  but  still  a  boy 
even  though  he  was  twenty.  Other  boys  played  about  the 
group  and  through  it,  but  none  was  so  striking  as  Kenyon, 
tall,  lithe,  with  a  beautifully  poised  head  of  crinkly  chestnut 
hair,  who  strode  gayly  among  the  youths  and  maidens  and 
yet  was  not  quite  of  them.  Even  the  Judge  could  see  that 
Kenyon  did  not  exactly  belong — that  he  was  rare  and  ex 
otic.  But  as  her  father's  car  crept  unnoticed  past  the 
group,  he  could  see  that  Lila  belonged.  She  was  in  no  way 
exotic  among  the  Calvins  and  Kollanders  and  the  Wrights, 
and  the  children  of  the  neighbors  in  Elm  Street.  Lila's 
clear,  merry  laugh — a  laugh  that  rang  like  an  old  bell 
through  Tom  Van  Dorn's  heart — rose  above  the  adolescent 
din  of  the  group  and  to  the  father  seemed  to  be  the  dominant 
note  in  the  hilarious  cadenza  of  young  life.  It  struck  him 
that  they  were  like  fireflies,  glowing  and  darting  and  dis 
appearing  and  weaving  about. 

And  fireflies  indeed  they  were.  For  in  them  the  fires  of 
life  were  just  beginning  to  sparkle.  Slowly  the  great  bat  of 
a  car  moved  up  past  them,  then  darted  around  the  block  like 
the  blind  creature  that  it  was,  and  whirling  its  awkward  cir 
cle  came  swooping  up  again  to  the  glowing,  animated  stars 
that  held  him  in  a  deadly  fascination.  For  those  twinkling, 
human  stars  playing  like  fireflies  in  exquisite  joy  at  the  first 
faint  kindling  in  their  hearts  of  the  fires  that  flame  forever 
in  the  torch  of  life,  might  well  have  held  in  their  spell  a 
stronger  man  than  Thomas  Van  Dorn.  For  the  first  evan 
escent  fires  of  youth  are  the  most  sacred  fires  in  the  world. 
And  well  might  the  great,  black  bat  of  a  car  circle  again  and 
again  and  even  again  around  and  come  always  back  to  the 
beautiful  light. 

But  Thomas  Van  Dorn  came  back  not  happily  but  in  sad 
unrest,  It  was  as  though  the  black  bat  carried  captive  on 
its  back  a  weary  pilgrim  from  the  Primrose  Hunt,  jaded  and 
spent  and  dour,  who  saw  in  the  sacred  fires  what  he  had 


450  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

cast  away,  what  he  had  deemed  worthless  and  of  a  sudden 
had  seen  in  its  true  beauty  and  in  its  real  value.  Once  again 
as  the  fireflies  played  their  ceaseless  game  with  the  ever 
flickering  glow  of  youth  shining  through  eyes  and  cheeks 
from  their  hearts,  the  great  bat  carrying  its  captive  swooped 
around  them — and  then  out  into  the  darkness  of  his  own 
charred  world. 

But  the  fireflies  in  the  gay  spring  twilight  kept  darting 
and  criss-crossing  and  frolicking  up  the  walk.  One  by  one, 
each  swiftly  or  lazily  disappeared  from  the  maze,  and  at 
last  only  two,  Kenyon  and  Lila,  went  weaving  up  the  lawn 
toward  the  steps  of  the  Nesbit  house. 

It  had  been  one  of  those  warm  days  when  spring  is  just 
coming  into  the  world.  All  day  the  boy  had  been  roaming 
the  wide  prairies.  The  voices  of  the  wind  in  the  brown  grass 
and  in  the  bare  trees  by  the  creek  had  found  their  way  into 
his  soul.  A  curious  soul  it  was — the  soul  of  a  poet,  the  soul 
of  one  who  felt  infinitely  more  than  he  knew — the  soul  of  a 
man  in  the  body  of  a  callow  youth. 

As  he  and  Lila  walked  up  the  hill,  all  the  dreams  that  had 
swept  across  him  out  in  the  fields  came  to  him.  They  sat 
on  the  south  steps  of  the  Nesbit  house  watching  the  spring 
that  was  trying  to  blossom  in  the  pink  and  golden  sunset. 
The  girl  was  beginning  to  look  at  the  world  through  new, 
strange  eyes,  and  out  on  the  hills  that  day  the  boy  also  had 
felt  the  thrill  of  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 

Their  talk  was  finite  and  far  short  of  the  vision  of  warm, 
radiant  life-stuff  flowing  through  the  universe  that  had 
thrilled  Kenyon  in  the  hills.  Out  there,  looking  eastward 
over  the  prairies  checked  in  brown  earth,  and  green  wheat, 
and  old  grass  faded  from  russet  to  lavender,  with  the  gray 
woods  worming  their  way  through  the  valleys,  he  had  found 
voice  and  had  crooned  melodies  that  came  out  of  the  wind 
and  sun,  and  satisfied  his  soul.  Over  and  over  he  had  re 
peated  in  various  cadences  the  words : 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills,  whence  cometh  my 
help." 

And  he  had  seemed  to  be  forming  a  great  heart-filling 
anthem.  It  was  all  on  his  tongue's  tip,  with  the  answering 
chorus  coming  from  out  of  some  vast  mystery,  ' '  Behold,  thou 


THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  451 

art  fair,  my  love — behold,  thou  art  fair — thou  hast  dove's 
eyes."  There  in  the  sunshine  upon  the  prairie  grass  it  was 
as  real  and  vital  a  part  of  his  soul's  aspiration  as  though  it 
had  been  reiterated  in  some  glad  symphony.  But  as  he  sat 
in  the  sunset  trying  to  put  into  his  voice  the  language  that 
stirred  his  heart,  he  could  only  drum  upon  a  box  and  look 
at  the  girl's  blue  eyes  and  her  rosebud  of  a  face  and  utter 
the  copper  coins  of  language  for  the  golden  yearning  of  his 
soul.  She  answered,  thrilled  by  the  radiance  of  his  eyes: 

"Isn't  the  young  spring  beautiful — don't  you  just  love  it, 
Kenyon?  I  do." 

He  rose  and  stood  out  in  the  sun  on  the  lawn.  The  girl 
got  up.  She  was  abashed ;  ard  strangely  self-conscious  with 
out  reason,  she  began  to  pirouette  down  the  walk  and  dance 
back  to  him,  with  her  blue  eyes  fastened  like  a  mystic  sky- 
thread  to  his  somber  gaze.  A  thousand  mute  messages  of 
youth  twinkled  across  that  thread.  Their  eyes  smiled.  The 
two  stood  together,  and  the  youth  kicked  with  his  toes  in  the 
soft  turf. 

"Lila,"  he  asked  as  he  looked  at  the  greening  grass  of 
spring,  "what  do  you  suppose  they  mean  when  they  say, 
'I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills'  ?  The  line  has  been  wig 
gling  around  in  my  head  all  morning  as  I  walked  over  the 
prairie,  that  and  another  that  I  can't  make  much  of,  about, 
'Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love — behold,  thou  art  fair.'  Say, 
Lila,"  he  burst  out,  "do  you  sometimes  have  things  just  pop 
into  your  head  all  fuzzy  with — oh,  well,  say  feeling  good  and 
you  don't  know  why,  and  you  are  just  too  happy  to  eat? 
I  do." 

He  paused  and  looked  into  her  bright,  unformed  face  with 
the  fleeting  cloud  of  sadness  trailing  its  blind  way  across 
her  heart. 

"And  say,  Lila — why,  this  morning  when  I  was  out  there 
all  alone  I  just  sang  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  I  felt  so  bang-up 
dandy — and — I  tell  you  something — honest,  I  kept  thinking 
of  you  all  the  time — you  and  the  hills  and  a  dove 's  eyes.  It 
just  tasted  good  way  down  in  me — you  ever  feel  that  way?" 

Again  the  girl  danced  her  answer  and  sent  the  words  she 
could  not  speak  through  her  eyes  and  his  to  his  innermost 
consciousness. 


452  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

'  *  But  honest,  Lila — don 't  you  ever  feel  that  way — kind  of 
creepy  with  good  feeling — tickledy  and  crawly,  as  though 
you'd  swallowed  a  candy  caterpillar  and  was  letting  it  go 
down  slow — slow,  slow,  to  get  every  bit  of  it — say,  honest, 
don't  you  ?  I  do.  It's  just  fine — out  on  the  prairie  all  alone 
with  big  bursting  thoughts  bumping  you  all  the  time — gee ! ' ' 

They  were  sitting  on  the  steps  when  he  finished  and  his 
heel  was  denting  the  sod.  She  was  entranced  by  what  she 
saw  in  his  eyes. 

' '  Of  course,  Kenyon, ' '  she  answered  finally.  ' '  Girls  are — 
oh,  different,  I  guess.  I  dream  things  like  that,  and  some 
times  mornings  when  I'm  wiping  dishes  I  think  'em — and 
drop  dishes — and  whoopee!  But  I  don't  know — girls  are 
not  so  woozy  and  slazy  inside  them  as  boys.  Kenyon,  let  me 
tell  you  something:  Girls  pretend  to  be  and  aren't — not 
half;  and  boys  pretend  they  aren't  and  are — lots  more." 

She  gazed  up  at  him  in  an  unblinking  joy  of  adoration  as 
shameless  as  the  heart  of  a  violet  baring  itself  to  the  sun. 
Then  she  shut  her  eyes  and  the  lad  caught  up  his  instrument 
and  cried : 

' '  Come  on,  Lila, — come  in  the  house.  I  Ve  got  to  play  out 
something — something  I  found  out  on  the  prairie  to-day 
about  'mine  eyes  unto  the  hills'  and  'the  eyes  of  the  dove' 
and  the  woozy,  fuzzy,  happy,  creepy  thoughts  of  you  all  the 
time." 

He  was  inside  the  door  with  the  violin  in  his  hands.  As 
she  closed  the  door  he  put  his  head  down  to  the  brown  violin 
as  if  to  hear  it  sing,  and  whispered  slowly : 

"Oh,  Lila — listen — just  hear  this." 

And  then  it  came!  "The  Spring  Sun,"  it  is  known  pop 
ularly.  But  in  the  book  of  his  collected  music  it  appears  as 
"Allegro  in  B."  It  is  the  throb  of  joy  of  young  life  asking 
the  unanswerable  question  of  God :  what  does  it  mean — this 
new,  fair,  wonderful  world  full  of  life  and  birth,  and  joy; 
charged  with  mystery,  enveloped  in  strange,  unsolved  gran 
deur,  like  the  cloud  pictures  that  float  and  puzzle  us  and 
break  and  reform  and  paint  all  Heaven  in  their  beauty  and 
then  resolve  themselves  into  nothing.  Many  people  think 
this  is  Kenyon  Adams's  most  beautiful  and  poetic  message. 
Certainly  in  the  expression  of  the  gayety  and  the  weird, 


THE  FELLOW  AND  THE  GIRL  453 

vague  mysticism  of  youth,  and  poignant  joy  he  never  reached 
that  height  again.  Death  is  ignored;  it  is  all  life  and  the 
aspirations  of  life  and  the  beekonings  of  life  and  the  ban 
tering  of  life  and  the  deep,  awful,  inexorable  call  of  life  to 
youth.  Other  messages  of  Kenyon  Adams  are  more  pro 
found,  more  comforting  to  the  hearts  and  the  minds  of  rea 
soning,  questioning  men.  But  this  Allegro  in  B  is  the  song 
of  youth,  of  early  youth,  bidding  childhood  adieu  and  turn 
ing  to  life  with  shining  countenance  and  burning  heart. 

When  he  had  finished  playing  he  was  in  tears,  and  the  girl 
sitting  before  him  was  awestricken  and  rapt  as  she  sat  with 
upturned  face  with  the  miracle  of  song  thrilling  her  soul. 
Let  us  leave  them  there  in  that  first  curious,  unrealized 
signaling  of  soul  to  soul.  And  now  let  us  go  on  into  this 
story,  and  remember  these  children,  as  children  still,  who  do 
not  know  that  they  have  opened  the  great  golden  door  into 
life! 


CHAPTER  XLI 

HERE  WE  SEE  GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  THIRD  AND  LAST 

DEVIL 

IN  the  ebb  and  flow  of  life  every  generation  sees  its  waves 
of  altruism  washing  in.  But  in  the  ebb  of  altruism  in 
America  that  followed  the  Civil  War,  Amos  Adams's 
ship  of  dreams  was  left  high  and  dry  in  the  salt  marsh. 
Finally  a  time  came  when  the  tide  began  to  boom  in.  But 
in  no  substantial  way  did  his  newspaper  feel  the  impulse  of 
the  current.  The  Tribune  was  an  old  hulk ;  it  could  not  ride 
the  tide.  And  its  skipper,  seedy,  broken  with  the  years, 
always  too  gentle  for  the  world  about  him,  even  at  his  best, 
ever  ready  to  stop  work  to  read  a  book,  Amos  Adams,  who 
had  been  a  crank  for  a  third  of  a  century,  remained  a  crank 
when  much  that  he  preached  in  earlier  years  was  accepted 
by  the  multitude. 

Amos  Adams  might  have  made  the  Harvey  Tribune  a 
financial  success  if  he  could  have  brought  himself  to  follow 
John  Kollander's  advice.  But  Amos  could  riot  abide  the 
presence  much  less  the  counsel  of  the  professional  patriot, 
with  his  insistent  blue  uniform  and  brass  buttons.  Under 
an  elaborate  pretense  of  independence,  John  Kollander  was 
a  limber-kneed  time-server,  always  keen-eyed  for  the  crumbs 
of  Dives'  table;  odd  jobs  in  receiverships,  odd  jobs  in  law 
suits  for  Daniel  Sands — as,  for  instance,  furnishing  unex 
pected  witnesses  to  prove  improbable  contentions — odd  jobs 
in  his  church,  odd  jobs  in  his  party  organization,  always 
carrying  a  per  diem  and  expenses ;  odd  jobs  for  the  Commer 
cial  Club,  where  the  pay  was  sure;  odd  jobs  for  Tom  Van 
Dorn,  spreading  slander  by  innuendo  where  it  would  do  the 
most  good  for  Tom  in  his  business;  odd  jobs  for  Tom  and 
Dick  and  for  Harry,  but  always  for  the  immediate  use  and 
benefit  of  John  Kollander,  his  heirs  and  assigns.  But  if 
Amos  Adams  ever  thought  of  himself,  it  was  by  inadver- 

454 


GEANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     455 

tence.  He  managed,  Heaven  only  knows  how,  to  keep  the 
Tribune  going.  Jasper  bought  back  from  the  man  who  fore 
closed  the  mortgage,  his  father's  homestead.  He  rented  it 
to  his  father  for  a  dollar  a  year  and  ostentatiously  gave  the 
dollar  to  the  Lord — so  ostentatiously,  indeed,  that  when 
Henry  Fenn  gayly  referred  to  Amos,  Grant  and  Jasper  as 
Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost,  the  town  smiled  at  his  impiety, 
but  the  holy  Jasper  boarded  at  the  Hotel  Sands,  was  made 
a  partner  at  Wright  &  Perry's,  and  became  a  bank  director 
at  thirty.  For  Jasper  was  a  Sands ! 

The  day  after  Amos  Adams  and  Tom  Van  Dorn  had  met 
in  the  Serenity  of  Books  and  Wallpaper  at  Brotherton 's, 
Grant  was  in  the  Tribune  office.  " Grant,"  the  father  was 
getting  down  from  his  high  stool  to  dump  his  type  on  the 
galley;  li Grant,  I  had  a  tiff  with  Tom  Van  Dorn  yesterday. 
Lord,  Lord,"  cried  the  old  man,  as  he  bent  over,  straighten 
ing  some  type  that  his  nervous  hand  had  knocked  down.  "I 
wonder,  Grant" — the  father  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
back,  as  he  stood  looking  into  his  son's  face — "I  wonder  if 
all  that  we  feel,  all  that  we  believe,  all  that  we  strive  and 
live  for — is  a  dream?  Are  we  chasing  shadows?  Isn't  it 
wiser  to  conform,  to  think  of  ourselves  first  and  others 
afterward — to  go  with  the  current  of  life  and  not  against  it  ? 
Of  course,  my  guides — " 

"Father,"  cried  Grant,  "I  saw  Tom  Van  Dorn  yesterday, 
too,  in  his  big  new  car — and  I  don't  need  your  guides  to 
tell  me  who  is  moving  with  the  current  and  who  is  buffeting 
it.  Oh,  father,  that  hell-scorched  face — don't  talk  to  me 
about  his  faith  and  mine!"  The  old  man  remounted  his 
printer's  stool  for  another  half -hour's  work  before  dusk 
deepened,  and  smiled  as  he  pulled  his  steel  spectacles  over 
his  clear  old  eyes. 

One  would  fancy  that  a  man  whose  face  was  as  seamed 
and  scarred  with  time  and  struggle  as  Grant  Adams's  face, 
would  have  said  nothing  of  the  hell-scorched  face  of  Tom 
Van  Dorn.  Yet  for  all  its  lines,  youth  still  shone  from 
Grant  Adams's  countenance.  His  wide,  candid  blue  eyes 
were  still  boyish,  and  a  soul  so  eager  with  hope  that  it  some 
times  blazed  into  a  mad  intolerance,  gazed  into  the  world 
from  behind  them.  Even  his  arm  and  claw  became  an  ani- 


456  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

mate  hand  when  Grant  waved  them  as  he  talked;  and  his 
wide,  pugnacious  shoulders,  his  shock  of  nonconforming  red 
hair,  his  towering  body,  and  his  solid  workman 's  legs,  firm  as 
oak  beams, — all, — claw,  arms,  shoulders,  trunk  and  legs, — 
translated  into  human  understanding  the  rebel  soul  of  Grant 
Adams. 

Yet  the  rebellion  of  Grant  Adams's  soul  was  no  new  thing 
to  the  world.  He  was  treading  the  rough  road  that  lies 
under  the  feet  of  all  those  who  try  to  divert  their  lives  from 
the  hard  and  wicked  morals  of  their  times.  For  the  king 
doms  of  this  earth  are  organized  for  those  who  devote  them 
selves  chiefly,  though  of  course  not  wholly,  to  the  considera 
tion  of  self.  The  world  is  still  vastly  egoistic  in  its  balance. 
And  the  unbroken  struggle  of  progress  from  Abel  to  yes 
terday's  reformer,  has  been,  is,  and  shall  be  the  battle  with 
the  spirit  that  chains  us  to  the  selfish,  accepted  order  of  the 
passing  day.  So  Grant  Adams's  face  was  battle  scarred,  but 
his  soul,  strong  and  exultant,  burst  through  his  flesh  and 
showed  itself  at  many  angles  of  his  being.  And  a  grim  and 
militant  thing  it  looked.  The  flinty  features  of  the  man,  his 
coarse  mouth,  his  indomitable  blue  eyes,  his  red  poll,  waving 
like  a  banner  above  his  challenging  forehead,  wrinkled  and 
seamed  and  gashed  with  the  troubles  of  harsh  circumstance, 
his  great  animal  jaw  at  the  base  of  the  spiritual  tower  of  his 
countenance — all  showed  forth  the  warrior's  soul,  the  war 
rior  of  the  rebellion  that  is  as  old  as  time  and  as  new  as 
to-morrow. 

Working  with  his  hands  for  a  bare  livelihood,  but  sitting 
at  his  desk  four  or  five  days  in  the  week  and  speaking  at 
night,  month  after  month,  year  after  year,  for  nearly  twenty 
years,  without  rest  or  change,  had  taken  much  of  the  bounce 
of  youth  from  his  body.  He  knew  how  the  money  from  the 
accumulated  dues  was  piling  up  in  the  Labor  Union's  war 
chest  in  the  valley.  He  had  proved  what  a  trade  solidarity 
in  an  industrial  district  could  do  for  the  men  without  strikes 
by  its  potential  strength.  Black  powder,  which  killed  like 
the  pestilence  that  stalketh  in  darkness,  was  gone.  Electric 
lights  had  superseded  torches  in  the  runways  of  the  mines. 
Bathhouses  were  found  in  all  the  shafts.  In  the  smelters 
the  long,  killing  hours  were  abandoned  and  a  score  of  safety 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     457 

devices  were  introduced.  But  each  gain  for  labor  had  come 
after  a  bitter  struggle  with  the  employers.  So  the  whole 
history  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  was  written  in  the  lines  of  his 
broken  face. 

The  reformer  with  his  iridescent  dream  of  progress  often 
hangs  its  realization  upon  a  single  phase  of  change.  Thus 
when  Grant  Adams  banished  black  powder  from  the  district, 
he  expected  the  whole  phantasm  of  dawn  to  usher  in  the 
perfect  day  for  the  miners.  When  he  secured  electric  lights 
in  the  runways  and  baths  in  the  shaft  house,  he  confidently 
expected  large  things  to  follow.  While  large  things  hesi 
tated,  he  saw  another  need  and  hurried  to  it. 

Thus  it  happened,  that  in  the  hurrying  after  a  new  need, 
Grant  Adams  had  always  remained  in  his  own  district, 
except  for  a  brief  season  when  he  and  Dr.  Nesbit  sallied 
forth  in  a  State-wide  campaign  to  defend  the  Doctor's  law 
to  compel  employers  to  pay  workmen  for  industrial  acci 
dents,  as  the  employers  replace  broken  machinery — a  law 
which  the  Doctor  had  pushed  through  the  Legislature  and 
which  was  before  the  people  for  a  referendum  vote.  When 
Grant  went  out  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  district  he  attracted 
curious  crowds,  crowds  that  came  to  see  the  queer  labor  leader 
who  won  without  strikes.  And  when  the  crowds  came  under 
Grant's  spell,  he  convinced  them.  For  he  felt  intensely. 
He  believed  that  this  law  would  right  a  whole  train  of  inci 
dental  wrongs  of  labor.  So  he  threw  himself  into  the  fight 
with  a  crusader's  ardor.  Grant  and  the  Doctor  journeyed 
over  the  State  through  July  and  August;  and  in  September 
the  wily  Doctor  trapped  Tom  Van  Dorn  into  a  series  of 
joint  debates  with  Grant  that  advertised  the  cause  widely 
and  well.  From  these  debates  Grant  Adams  emerged  a 
somebody  in  politics.  For  oratory,  however  polished,  and 
scholarship,  however  plausible,  cannot  -stand  before  the 
wrath  of  an  indignant  man  in  a  righteous  cause  who  can 
handle  himself  and  suppress  his  wrath  upon  the  platform. 

As  the  week  of  the  debate  dragged  on  and  as  the  pageant 
of  it  trailed  clear  across  the  State,  with  crowds  hooting  and 
cheering,  Doctor  Nesbit 's  cup  of  joy  ran  over.  And  when 
Van  Dorn  failed  to  appear  for  the  Saturday  meeting  at  the 
capital,  the  Doctor's  happiness  mounted  to  glee. 


458  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

That  night,  long  after  the  midnight  which  ended  the  day's 
triumph,  Grant  and  the  Doctor  were  sitting  on  a  baggage 
truck  at  a  way  station  waiting  for  a  belated  train.  Grant 
was  in  the  full  current  of  his  passion.  Personal  triumph 
meant  little  to  him — the  cause  everything.  His  heart  was 
afire  with  a  lust  to  win.  The  Doctor  kept  looking  at  Grant 
with  curious  eyes— appraising  eyes;  indeed— from  time  to 
timers  the  younger  man's  interminable  stream  of  talk  of 
the  Cause  flowed  on.  But  the  Doctor  had  his  passion  also. 
When  it  burst  its  bonds,  he  was  saying:  "Look  here,  you 
crazy  man — take  a  reef  in  your  canvas  picture  of  jocund 
day  upon  the  misty  mountain  tops — get  down  to  grass 
roots/'  Grant  turned  an  exalted  face  upon  the  Doctor  in 
astonishment.  The  Doctor  went  on  : 

"Grant,  I  can  give  the  concert  all  right — but,  young  man, 
you  are  selling  the  soap.  That's  a  great  argument  you  have 
been  making  this  week.  Grant. " 

"There  wasn't  much  to  my  argument.  Doctor,"  answered 
Grant,  absently,  "though  it  was  a  righteous  cause.  All  I 
did  was  to  make  an  appeal  to  the  pocketbooks  of  Market 
Street  all  over  the  State,  showing  the  merchants  and  farm 
ers  that  the  more  the  laboring  man  receives  the  more  he  will 
spend,  and  if  he  is  paid  for  his  accidents  he  will  buy  more 
prunes  and  calico ;  whereas,  if  he  is  not  paid  he  will  burden 
the  taxes  as  a  pauper.  Tom  couldn't  overcome  that  argu 
ment,  but  in  the  long  run,  our  cause  will  not  be  won  per 
manently  and  definitely  by  the  bread  and  butter  and  taxes 
argument,  except  as  that  sort  of  argument  proves  the  justice 
of  our  cause  and  arouses  love  in  the  hearts  of  you  middle- 
class  people." 

But  Dr.  Nesbit  persisted  with  his  figure.  "Grant,"  he 
piped,  "you  certainly  can  sell  soap.  Why  don't  you  sell 
some  soap  on  your  own  hook?  Why  don't  you  let  me  run 
you  for  something — Congress — governor,  or  something? 
We  can  win  hands  down." 

^  Grant  did  not  wait  for  the  Doctor  to  finish,  but  cried  in 
violent  protest:  "No,  no,  no — Doctor — no,  I  must  not  do 
that,  I  tell  you,  man,  I  must  travel  light  and  alone.  I 
must  gcr  into  life  as  naked  as  St.  Francis.  The  world  is 
stirring  as  with  a  great  spirit  of  change.  The  last  night 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     459 

I  was  at  home,  up  stepped  a  little  Belgian  glassblower  to 
me.  I'd  never  seen  him  before.  I  said,  'Hello,  comrade!' 
He  grasped  my  hands  with  both  hands  and  cried  'Com 
rade!  So  you  know  the  password.  It  has  given  me  wel 
come  and  warmth  and  food  in  France,  in  England,  in  Aus 
tralia,  and  now  here.  Everywhere  the  workers  are  com 
rades!'  Everywhere  the  workers  are  comrades.  Do  you 
know  what  that  means,  Doctor  ? ' ' 

The  Doctor  did  not  answer.  His  seventy  years,  and  his 
habit  of  thinking  in  terms  of  votes  and  parties  and  factions, 
made  him  sigh. 

"Doctor/'  cried  Grant,  " electing  men  to  office  won't  help. 
But  this  law  we  are  fighting  for — this  law  will  help.  Doctor, 
I'm  pinning  the  faith  of  a  decade  of  struggle  on  this  law." 

The  Doctor  broke  the  silence  that  followed  Grant's  decla 
ration,  to  say:  "Grant,  I  don't  see  it  your  way.  I  feel 
that  life  must  crystallize  its  progress  in  institutions — politi 
cal  institutions,  before  progress  is  safe.  But  you  must  work 
out  your  own  life,  my  boy.  Incidentally,"  he  piped,  "I 
believe  you  are  wrong.  But  after  this  campaign  is  over,  I'm 
going  up  to  the  capital  for  one  last  fling  at  making  a  United 
States  Senator.  I've  only  a  dozen  little  white  chips  in  the 
great  game,  five  in  the  upper  house  and  seven  in  the  lower 
house.  But  we  may  deadlock  it,  and  if  we  do, — you'll  see 
thirty  years  drop  off  my  head  and  witness  the  rejuvenation 
of  Old  Linen  Pants." 

Grant  began  walking  the  platform  again  under  the  stars 
like  an  impatient  ghost.  The  Doctor  rose  and  followed  him. 

"Grant,  now  let  me  tell  you  something.  I  am  half  in 
clined  at  times  to  think  it's  all  moonshine — this  labor  law 
we're  working  to  establish.  But  Laura  wants  it,  and  God 
knows,  Grant,  she  has  little  enough  in  her  life  down  there  in 
the  Valley.  And  if  this  law  makes  her  happy — it's  the 
least  I  can  do  for  her.  She  hasn't  had  what  she  should  have 
had  out  of  life,  so  I'm  trying  to  make  her  second  choice 
worth  while.  That 's  why  I  'm  on  the  soap  wagon  with  you  ! ' ' 
He  would  have  laughed  away  this  serious  mood,  but  he 
could  not. 

Grant  stared  at  the  Doctor  for  a  moment  before  answer 
ing:  "Why,  of  course,  Dr.  Nesbit,  I've  always  known  that. 


£60  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

But — I — Doctor — I  am  consecrated  to  the  cause.  It  is  my 
reason  for  living." 

The  day  had  passed  in  the  elder's  life  when  he  could  rise 
to  the  younger  man's  emotions.  He  looked  curiously  at 
Grant  and  said  softly: 

"Oh,  to  be  young — to  be  young — to  be  young!"  He 
rose,  touched  the  strong  arm  beside  him.  "  'And  the  young 
men  shall  see  visions. '  To  be  young — just  to  be  young  f  But 
'the  old  men  shall  dream  dreams.'  Well,  Grant,  they  are  un 
important — not  entirely  pleasant.  We  young  men  of  the 
seventies  had  a  great  material  vision.  The  dream  of  an 
empire  here  in  the  West.  It  has  come  true — increased  one 
hundred  fold.  Yet  it  is  not  much  of  a  dream." 

He  let  the  arm  drop  and  began  drumming  on  the  truck  as 
he  concluded:  "But  it's  all  I  have — all  the  dream  I  have 
now.  'All  of  which  I  saw,  and  part  of  which  I  was,'  yet," 
he  mused,  "perhaps  it  will  be  used  as  a  foundation  upon 
which  something  real  and  beautiful  will  be  builded." 

Far  away  the  headlight  of  their  approaching  train 
twinkled  upon  the  prairie  horizon.  The  two  men  watched  it 
glow  into  fire  and  come  upon  them.  And  without  resuming 
their  talk,  each  went  his  own  wide,  weary  way  in  the  world 
as  they  lay  in  adjoining  berths  on  the  speeding  train. 

At  the  general  election  the  Doctor's  law  was  upheld  by  a 
majority  of  the  votes  in  the  State,  but  the  Doctor  himself 
was  defeated  for  reelection  to  the  State  Senate  in  his  own 
district.  Grant  Adams  waited,  intently  and  with  fine  faith, 
for  this  law  to  bring  in  the  millennium.  But  the  Doctor  had 
no  millennial  faith. 

He  came  down  town  the  morning  after  his  defeat,  gay  and 
unruffled.  He  went  toddling  into  the  stores  and  offices  of 
Market  Street,  clicking  his  cane  busily,  thanking  his  friends 
and  joking  with  his  foes.  But  he  chirruped  to  Henry  Fenn 
and  Kyle  Perry  whom  he  found  in  the  Serenity  at  the  close  of. 
the  day:  "Well,  gentlemen,  I've  seen  'em  all!  I've  taken 
my  medicine  like  a  little  man ;  but  I  won't  lick  the  spoon.  I 
sha'n't  go  and  see  Dan  and  Tom.  I'm  willing  to  go  as  far 
as  any  man  in  the  forgiving  and  forgetting  business,  but  the 
Lord  himself  hasn't  quit  on  them.  Look  at  'em.  The  devil's 
mortgage  is  recorded  all  over  their  faces  and  he's  getting 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     461 

about  ready  to  foreclose  on  old  Dan!  And  every  time  Dan 
hears  poor  Morty  cough,  the  devil  collects  his  compound 
interest.  Poor,  dear,  gay  Morty — if  he  could  only  put  up  a 
fight!" 

But  he  could  not  put  up  a  fight  and  his  temperature  rose 
in  the  afternoon  and  he  could  not  meet  with  his  gymnasium 
class  in  South  Harvey  in  the  evening,  but  sent  a  trainer 
instead.  So  often  weeks  passed  during  which  Laura  Van 
Dorn  did  not  see  Morty  and  the  daily  boxes  of  flowers  that 
came  punctiliously  with  his  cards  to  the  kindergarten  and 
to  Violet  Hogan 's  day  nursery,  were  their  only  reminders 
of  the  sorry,  lonely,  footless  struggle  Morty  was  making. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  lives  of  Violet  Hogan  and  Laura 
Van  Dorn  in  South  Harvey  should  meet  and  merge.  And 
when  they  met  and  merged,  Violet  Hogan  found  herself 
devoting  but  a  few  hours  a  day  to  her  day  nursery,  while 
she  worked  six  long,  happy  hours  as  a  stenographer  for 
Grant  Adams  in  his  office  at  the  Vanderbilt  House.  For, 
after  all,  it  was  as  a  stenographer  that  she  remembered  her 
self  in  the  grandeur  and  the  glory  of  her  past.  So  Henry 
Fenn  and  Laura  Van  Dorn  carried  on  the  work  that  Violet 
began,  and  for  them  souls  and  flowers  and  happiness  bloomed 
over  the  Valley  in  the  dark,  unwholesome  places  which  death 
had  all  but  taken  for  his  own. 

It  was  that  spring  when  Dr.  Nesbit  went  to  the  capital 
and  took  his  last  fling  at  State  politics.  For  two  months  he 
had  deadlocked  his  party  caucus  in  the  election  of  a  United 
States  Senator  with  hardly  more  than  a  dozen  legislative 
votes.  And  he  was  going  out  of  his  dictatorship  in  a  golden 
glow  of  glory. 

And  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  golden  age  for  Captain 
Morton.  The  Morton-Perry  Axle  "Works  were  thriving. 
Three  eight-hour  shifts  kept  the  little  plant  booming,  and 
by  agreement  with  the  directors  of  the  Independent  mine, 
Nathan  Perry  spent  five  hours  a  day  in  the  works.  He 
and  the  Captain,  and  the  youngest  Miss  Morton,  who  was 
keeping  books,  believed  that  it  would  go  over  the  line  from 
loss  to  profit  before  grass  came.  The  Captain  hovered  about 
the  plant  like  an  earth-bound  spirit  day  and  night,  inter 
rupting  the  work  of  the  men,  disorganizing  the  system  that 


462  IN  THE  HEART  OP  A  FOOL 

Nathan  had  installed,  and  persuading  himself  that  but  for 
him  the  furnaces  would  go  dead  and  the  works  shut  down. 

It  was  one  beautiful  day  in  late  March,  after  the  November 
election  wherein  the  Doctor's  law  had  won  and  the  Doctor 
himself  had  lost,  that  Grant  Adams  was  in  Harvey  figuring 
with  Mr.  Brotherton  on  supplies  for  his  office.  Captain 
Morton  came  tramping  down  the  clouds  before  him  as  he 
swept  into  the  Serenity  and  jabbed  a  spike  through  the 
wheels  of  commerce  with  the  remark:  "Well,  George — what 
do  you  think  of  my  regalia — eh?" 

Mr.  Brotherton  and  Grant  looked  up  from  their  work. 
They  beheld  the  Captain  arrayed  in  a  dazzling  light  gray 
spring  suit — an  exceedingly  light  gray  suit,  with  a  hat  of  the 
same  color  and  gloves  and  shoe  spats  to  match,  with  a  red 
tie  so  red.  that  it  all  but  crackled.  "First  profits  of  the 
business.  We  got  over  the  line  yesterday  noon,  and  I  had  a 
thousand  to  go  on,  and  this  morning  I  just  went  on  this 
spree — what  say  ? ' ' 

"Well,  Cap,  when  Morty  Sands  sees  you  he  will  die  of 
envy.  You're  certainly  the  lily  of  the  Valley  and  the  bright 
and  morning  star — the  fairest  of  ten  thousand  to  my  soul! 
Grant,"  said  Brotherton  as  he  turned  to  his  customer,  "be 
hold  the  plute!" 

The  Captain  stood  grinning  in  pride  as  the  men  looked 
him  over. 

"  'Y  gory,  boys,  you'd  be  surprised  the  way  that  House 
hold  Horse  has  hit  the  trade.  Orders  coming  in  from  auto 
mobile  makers,  and  last  week  we  decided  to  give  up  making 
the  little  power  saver  and  make  the  whole  rear  axle.  We're 
going  to  call  it  the  Morton-Perry  Axle,  and  put  in  a  big 
plant,  and  I  was  telling  Ruthy  this  morning,  I  says,  'Ruth,' 
says  I,  'if  we  make  the  axle  business  go,  I'll  just  telephone 
down  to  Wright  &  Perry  and  have  them  send  you  out  some 
thing  nobby  in  husbands,  and,  'y  gory,  a  nice  thousand-mile 
wedding  trip  and  maybe  your  pa  will  go  along  for  company — 
what  say?'  " 

He  was  an  odd  figure  in  his  clothes — for  they  were  ready- 
made — made  for  the  figure  of  youth,  arid  although  he  had 
been  in  them  but  a  few  hours,  the  padding  was  bulging  at 
the  wrong  places ;  and  they  were  wrinkled  where  they  should 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     463 

be  tight.  His  bony  old  figure  stuck  out  at  the  knees,  and 
the  shoulders  and  elbows,  and  the  high  collar  would  not  fit 
his  skinny  neck.  But  he  was  happy,  and  fancied  he  looked 
like  the  pictures  of  college  boys  in  the  back  of  magazines. 
So  he  answered  Mr.  Brotherton 's  question  about  the  opinion 
of  the  younger  daughter  as  to  the  clothes  by  a  profound 
wink. 

"  Scared— scared  plumb  stiff— what  say?  I  caught  Mar- 
thy  nodding  at  Ruth  and  Ruthy  looking  hard  at  Marthy,  and 
then  both  of  'em  went  to  the  kitchen  to  talk  over  calling  up 
Emmy  and  putting  out  fly  poison  for  the  women  that  are 
lying  in  wait  for  their  pa.  Scared— why,  scared 's  no  name 
for  it — what  say?" 

"Well,  Captain,"  answered  Mr.  Brotherton,  ''you  are  cer 
tainly  voluptuous  enough  in  your  new  stage  setting  to  have 
your  picture  on  a  cigar  box  as  a  Cuban  beauty  or  a  Spanish 
seliorita." 

The  Captain  was  turning  about,  trying  to  see  how  the 
coat  set  in  the  back  and  at  the  same  time  watching  the  hang 
of  the  trousers.  Evidently  he  was  satisfied  with  it.  For  he 
said:  "Well— guess  I'll  be  going.  I'll  just  mosey  down 
to  Mrs.  Herdicker's  to  give  Emmy  and  Marthy  and  Ruthy 
something  to  keep  'em  from  thinking  of  their  real  troubles— 
eh?"  And  with  a  flourish  he  was  gone. 

When  Grant's  order  was  filled,  he  said,  "Violet  will  call 
for  this,  George;  I  have  some  other  matters  to  attend  to." 

As  he  assembled  the  goods  for  the  order,  Mr.  Brotherton 
called  out,  "Well,  how  is  Violet,  anyway?"  Grant  smiled. 
"Violet  is  doing  well.  She  is  blooming  over  again,  and 
when  she  found  herself  before  a  typewriter — it  really  seemed 
to  take  the  curve  out  of  her  back.  Henry  declares  that  the 
typewriter  put  ribbon  in  her  hair.  Laura  Van  Dorn,  I  be 
lieve,  is  responsible  for  Violet's  shirt  waists.  Henry  Fenn 
comes  to  the  office  twice  a  day,  to  make  reports  on^  the 
sewing  business.  But  what  he's  really  doing,  George,  is  to 
let  her  smell  his  breath  to  prove  that  he's  sober,  and  so 
she  runs  the  two  jobs  at  once.  Have  you  seen  Henry  re 
cently?" 

"Well,"  replied  Brotherton,  "he  was  in  a  month  or  so 
ac;o  to  borrow  ten  to  buy  a  coat — so  that  he  could  catch  up 


464  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

with  the  trousers  of  that  suit  before  they  grew  too  old.  He 
still  buys  his  clothes  that  way." 

Grant  threw  back  his  red  head  and  grinned  a  grim,  silent 
grin:  "Well,  that's  funny.  Didn't  you  know  what  is 
keeping  him  away?"  Again  Grant  grinned.  "The  day  he 
was  here  he  came  wagging  down  with  that  ten-dollar  bill, 
but  his  conscience  got  the  best  of  him  for  lavishing  so  much 
money  on  himself,  so  he  slipped  it  to  Violet  and  told  her  to 
buy  her  some  new  teeth — you  know  she's  been  ashamed  to 
open  her  mouth  now  for  years.  Violet  promised  she  would 
get  the  teeth  in  time  for  Easter.  And  pretty  soon  in  walks 
Mrs.  Maurice  Stromsky — who  scrubs  in  the  Wright  &  Perry 
Building,  whose  baby  died  last  summer  and  had  to  be  buried 
in  the  Potter's  field — she  came  in;  and  she  and  Violet  got  to 
talking  about  the  baby — and  Violet  up  and  gave  that  ten  to 
Mrs.  Stromsky,  to  get  the  baby  out  of  the  Potter's  field." 

Mr.  Brotherton  laughed  his  great  laugh.     Grant  went  on: 

"But  that  isn't  all.  The  next  day  in  walks  Mrs.  Maurice 
Stromsky,  penitent  as  a  dog,  and  I  heard  her  squaring  her 
self  with  Violet  for  giving  that  old  saw-buck  of  yours  to  the 
Delaneys,  whose  second  little  girl  had  diphtheria  and  who 
had  no  money  for  antitoxin.  I  never  saw  your  ten  again, 
George,"  said  Grant.  "It  seemed  to  be  going  down  for  the 
last  time. ' '  He  looked  at  Brotherton  quizzically  for  a  second 
and  asked : 

"So  old  Henry  hasn't  been  around  since — isn't  that  joy 
ous  ?  Well — anyway,  he  '11  show  up  to-day  or  to-morrow,  for 
he's  got  the  new  coat;  he  got  it  this  morning.  Jasper  was 
telling  me." 

In  an  hour  Grant,  returning  after  his  morning's  errands, 
was  standing  by  the  puny  little  blaze  that  John  Dexter  had 
stirred  out  of  the  logs  in  the  Serenity.  The  two  were  stand 
ing  together.  Mr.  Brotherton,  reading  his  Kansas  City 
paper  at  his  desk,  called  to  them:  "Well,  I  see  Doc  Jim's 
still  holding  his  deadlock  and  they  can't  elect  a  United 
States  Senator  without  him ! ' ' 

A  telegraph  messenger  boy  came  in,  looked  into  the  Se 
renity,  and  said,  "Mr.  Adams,  I  was  looking  for  you." 

Grant  signed  the  boy's  book,  read  the  telegram,  and  stood 
dumbly  gazing  at  the  fire,  as  he  held  the  sheet  in  his  hand. 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     465 

The  fire  popped  and  snapped  and  the  little  blaze  grew 
stronger  when  a  log  dropped  in  two.  A  customer  came  in — 
picked  up  a  magazine — called,  "Charge  it,  please,"  then 
went  out.  The  door  slammed.  Another  customer  came  and 
went.  Miss  Calvin  stepped  back  to  Mr.  Brotherton.  The 
bell  of  the  cash  register  tinkled.  Then  Grant  Adams  turned, 
looked  at  the  minister  absently  for  a  moment,  and  handed 
him  the  sheet.  It  read : 

"I  have  pledged  in  writing  five  more  votes  than  are 
needed  to  make  you  the  caucus  nominee  and  give  you  a 
majority  on  the  joint  ballot  to-night  for  United  States 
Senator.  Come  up  first  train." 

It  was  signed  "James  Nesbit."  The  preacher  dropped  his 
hand  still  holding  the  yellow  sheet,  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"Well?"  asked  Grant. 

"You  say,"  returned  John  Dexter,  and  added:  "It 
would  be  a  great  opportunity — give  you  the  greatest  forum 
for  your  cause  in  Christendom — give  you  more  power  than 
any  other  labor  advocate  ever  held  in  the  world  before." 

He  said  all  this  tentatively  and  as  one  asking  a  question. 
Grant  did  not  reply.  He  sat  pounding  his  leg  with  his 
claw,  abstractedly. 

* '  You  needn  't  be  a  mere  theorist  in  the  Senate.  You  could 
get  labor  laws  enacted  that  would  put  forward  the  cause  of 
labor.  Grant,  really,  it  looks  as  though  this  was  your  life's 
chance. ' ' 

Grant  reached  for  the  telegram  and  read  it  again.  The 
telegram  fluttering  in  his  hands  dropped  to  the  floor.  He 
reached  for  it — picked  it  up,  folded  it  on  his  claw  carefully, 
and  put  it  away.  Then  he  turned  to  the  preacher  and  said 
harshly : 

"There's  nothing  in  it.  To  begin:  you  say  I'll  have 
more  power  than  any  other  labor  leader  in  the  world.  I  tell 
you,  labor  leaders  don't  need  personal  power.  We  don't 
need  labor  laws — that  is,  primarily.  What  we  need  is  senti 
ment — a  public  love  of  the  under  dog  that  will  make  our  pres 
ent  laws  intolerable.  It  isn't  power  for  me,  it  isn 't  clean  pol 
itics  for  the  State,  it  isn't  labor  laws  that's  my  job.  My  job, 


466  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

dearly  beloved,"  he  hooked  the  minister's  hand  and  tossed  it 
gently,  "my  job,  oh,  thou  of  little  faith,"  he  cried,  as  a 
flaming  torch  of  emotion  seemed  to  brush  his  face  and  kindle 
the  fanatic  glow  in  his  countenance  while  his  voice  lifted, 
"is  to  stay  right  down  here  in  the  Wahoo  Valley,  pile  up 
money  in  the  war  chest,  pile  up  class  feeling  among  the  men 
— comradeship — harness  this  love  of  the  poor  for  the  poor 
into  an  engine,  and  then  some  day  slip  the  belt  on  that  en 
gine — turn  on  the  juice  and  pull  and  pull  and  pull  for  some 
simple,  elemental  piece  of  justice  that  will  show  the  world 
one  phase  of  the  truth  about  labor. ' ' 

Grant's  face  was  glowing  with  emotion.  "I  tell  you,  the 
day  of  the  Kingdom  is  here — only  it  isn't  a  kingdom,  it's 
Democracy — the  great  Democracy.  It's  coming.  I  must  go 
out  and  meet  it.  In  the  dark  down  in  the  mines  I  saw  the 
Holy  Ghost  rise  into  the  lives  of  a  score  of  men.  Arid  now 
I  see  the  Holy  Ghost  coming  into  a  great  class.  And  I  must 
go — go  with  neither  purse  nor  script  to  meet  it,  to  live  for  it, 
and  maybe  to  die  for  it."  He  shook  his  head  and  cried 
vehemently : 

"AVhat  a  saphead  I'd  be  if  I  fell  to  that  bait!"  He 
turned  to  the  store  and  called  to  Miss  Calvin.  "Ave — is 
there  a  telegraph  blank  in  the  desk?" 

Mr.  Brotherton  threw  it,  skidding,  across  the  long  counter. 
Grant  fumbled  in  his  vest  for  a  pen,  held  the  sheet  firmly 
with  his  claw  and  wrote : 

"You  are  kindness  itself.  But  the  place  doesn't  interest 
me.  Moreover,  no  man  should  go  to  the  Senate  representing 
all  of  a  State,  whose  job  it  is  to  preach  class  consciousness  to 
a  part  of  the  State.  Get  a  bigger  man.  I  thank  you,  how 
ever,  with  all  my  heart. ' ' 

Grant  watched  the  preacher  read  the  telegram.  He  read 
it  twice,  then  he  said:  "Well — of  course,  that's  right. 
That's  right — I  can  see  that.  But  I  don't  know — don't  you 
think — I  mean  aren't  you  kind  of — well,  I  can't  just  express 
it;  but—" 

"Well,  don't  try,  then,"  returned  Grant. 

However,  Doctor  Nesbit,  having  something  rather  more 


GRANT  ADAMS  CONQUERING  HIS  DEVIL     467 

than  the  ethics  of  the  case  at  stake,  was  aided  by  his  emo 
tions  in  expressing  himself.  He  made  his  views  clear, 
and  as  Grant  sat  at  his  desk  that  afternoon,  he  read  this  in  a 
telegram  from  the  Doctor : 

"Well,  of  all  the  damn  fools!" 

That  was  one  view  of  the  situation.  There  was  this  other. 
It  may  be  found  in  one  of  those  stated  communications  from 
perhaps  Ruskin  or  Kingsley,  which  the  Peach  Blow  Philoso 
pher  sometimes  vouchsafed  to  the  earth  and  it  read: 

'  *  A  great  life  may  be  lived  by  any  one  who  is  strong  enough 
to  fail  for  an  ideal." 

Still  another  view  may  be  had  by  setting  down  what  John 
Dexter  said  to  his  wife,  and  what  she  said  to  him.  Said  he, 
when  he  had  recounted  the  renunciation  of  Grant  Adams: 

'  *  There  goes  the  third  devil.  First  he  conquered  the  temp 
tation  to  marry  and  be  comfortable ;  next  he  put  fame  behind 
him,  and  now  he  renounces  power." 

And  she  said:  "It  had  never  occurred  to  me  to  consider 
Laura  Van  Dorn,  or  national  reputation,  or  a  genuine  chance 
for  great  usefulness  as  a  devil.  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  like  your 
taste  in  devils." 

To  which  answer  may  be  made  again  by  Mr.  Left  in  a  com 
munication  he  received  from  George  Meredith,  who  had  re 
cently  passed  over.  It  was  verified  by  certain  details  as  to 
the  arrangement  of  the  books  on  the  little  table  in  the  little 
room  in  the  little  house  on  a  little  hill  where  he  was  wont 
to  write,  and  it  ran  thus : 

"Women,  always  star-hungry,  ever  uncompromising  in  their  demand 
for  rainbows,  nibbling  at  the  entre'  and  pushing  aside  the  roast,  though 
often  adoring  primitive  men  who  gorge  on  it,  but  ever  in  the  end 
rewarding  abstinence  and  thus  selecting  a  race  of  spiritually-minded 
men  for  mates,  are  after  all  the  world's  materialists." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

A    CHAPTER    WHICH    IS    CONCERNED    LARGELY    WITH    THE    LOVE 
AFFAIRS   OF    *  *  THE   FULL    STRENGTH    OF    THE   COMPANY" 

THIS  story,  first  of  all,  and  last  of  all,  is  a  love  story. 
The  emotion  called  love  and  its  twin  desire  hunger, 
are  the  two  primal  passions  of  life.  From  love  have 
developed  somewhat  the  great  altruistic  institutions  of 
humanity— the  family,  the  tribe,  the  State,  the  nation,  and 
the  varied  social  activities — religion,  patriotism,  philan 
thropy,  brotherhood.  While  from  hunger  have  developed 
war  and  trade  and  property  and  wealth.  Often  it  happens 
in  the  growth  of  life  that  men  have  small  choice  in  matters  of 
living  that  are  motived  by  hunger  or  its  descendant  concerns ; 
for  necessity  narrows  the  choice.  But  in  affairs  of  the  heart, 
there  comes  wide  latitudes  of  choice.  It  is  reasonably  just 
therefore  to  judge  a  man,  a  nation,  a  race,  a  civilization,  an 
era,  by  its  love  affairs.  So  a  book  that  would  tell  of  life, 
that  would  paint  the  manners  of  men,  and  thus  show  their 
hearts,  must  be  a  love  story.  "As  a  man  thinketh  in  his 
heart,  so  is  he,"  runs  the  proverb,  and,  mind  you,  it  says 
heart — not  head,  not  mind,  but  heart ;  as  a  man  thinketh  in 
his  heart,  in  that  part  of  his  nature  where  reside  his  altruistic 
emotions — so  is  he. 

It  is  the  sham  and  shame  of  the  autobiographies  that  flood 
and  dishearten  the  world,  that  they  are  so  uncandid  in  their 
relation  of  those  emotional  episodes  in  life — episodes  which 
have  to  do  with  what  we  know  for  some  curious  reason  as 
* '  the  softer  passions. ' '  Caesar 's  Gaelic  wars,  his  bridges,  his 
trouble  with  the  impedimenta,  his  fights  with  the  Helvetians 
— who  cares  for  them?  Who  cares  greatly  for  Napoleon's 
expedition  against  the  Allies?  Of  what  human  interest  is 
Grant's  tale  of  the  Wilderness  fighting?  But  to  know  of 
Calpurnia,  of  her  predecessors,  and  her  heirs  and  assigns  in 

468 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     469 

Caesar 's  heart;  to  know  the  truth  about  Josephine  and  the 
crash  in  Napoleon's  life  that  came  with  her  heartbreak — if  a 
crash  did  come,  or  if  not,  to  know  frankly  what  did  come; 
to  know  how  Grant  got  on  with  Julia  Dent  through  poverty 
and  riches,  through  sickness  and  in  health,  for  better  or  for 
worse — with  all  the  strain  and  stress  and  struggle  that  life 
puts  upon  the  yoke  that  binds  the  commonplace  man  to  the 
commonplace  woman  rising  to  eminence  by  some  unimportant 
quirk  of  his  genius  reacting  on  the  times — these  indeed  would 
be  memoirs  worth  reading. 

And  whatever  worth  this  story  holds  must  come  from  its 
value  as  a  love-story, — the  narrative  of  how  love  rose  or  fell, 
grew  or  withered,  bloomed  and  fruited,  or  rotted  at  the  core 
in  the  lives  of  those  men  and  women  who  move  through  the, 
scenes  painted  upon  this  canvas.  After  all,  who  cares  that 
Thomas  Van  Dorn  waxed  fat  in  the  land,  that  he  received 
academic  degrees  from  great  universities  which  his  masters 
supported,  that  he  told  men  to  go  and  they  went,  to  come 
and  they  came?  These  things  are  of  no  consequence.  Men 
are  doing  such  things  every  minute  of  every  day  in  all  the 
year. 

But  here  sits  Thomas  Van  Dorn,  one  summer  afternoon, 
with  a  young  broker  from  New  York — one  of  those  young 
brokers  with  not  too  nice  a  conscience,  who  laughs  too  easily 
at  the  wrong  times.  He  and  Thomas  Van  Dorn  are  upon  the 
east  veranda  of  the  new  Country  Club  building  in  Harvey 
— the  pride  of  the  town — and  Thomas  is  squinting  across  the 
golf  course  at  a  landscape  rolling  away  for  miles  like  a  sea,  a 
landscape  rich  in  homely  wealth.  The  young  New  Yorker 
comes  with  letters  to  Judge  Van  Dorn  from  his  employers  in 
Broad  Street,  and  as  the  two  sip  their  long  cool  glasses,  and 
betimes  smoke  their  long  black  cigars,  the  former  judge  falls 
into  one  of  those  self-revealing  philosophical  moods  that  may 
be  called  the  hypnoidal  semi-conscious  state  of  common  sense. 
Said  Van  Dorn: 

"Well,  boy — what  do  you  think  of  the  greatest  thing  in 
the  world  ? 9 '  And  not  waiting  for  an  answer  the  older  man 
continued  as  he  held  his  cigar  at  arm 's  length  and  looked  be 
tween  his  elevated  feet  at  the  landscape :  "  '  Stay  me  with 
flagons,  comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of  love. '  Great 


470  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

old  lover — Solomon.  Rather  out  of  the  amateur  class — with 
his  thousand  wives  and  concubines;  perhaps  a  virtuous  man 
withal,  but  hardly  a  fanatic  on  the  subject;  and  when  he  said 
he  was  sick  of  love — probably  somewhere  in  his  fifties, — Solo 
mon  voiced  a  profound  man's  truth.  Most  of  us  are. 
Speaking  generally  of  love,  my  boy,  I  am  with  Solomon. 
There  is  nothing  in  it. ' ' 

The  cigar  in  his  finely  curved  mouth — the  sensuous  mouth 
of  youth,  that  had  pursed  up  dryly  in  middle  age — was 
pointed  upward.  It  stood  out  from  a  reddish  lean  face  and 
moved  when  the  muscles  of  the  face  worked  viciously  in  re 
sponse  to  some  inward  reflection  of  Tom  Van  Dorn. 

He  drawled  on,  "Think  of  the  time  men  fool  away  chasing 
calico.  I've  gone  all  the  gaits,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  Ladies  and  Judy  O'Gradies,  married  and  single,  de 
cent  and  indecent — it's  all  the  same.  I  tell  you,  young  man, 
there's  nothing  in  it!  Love,"  he  laughed  a  little  laugh: 
"Love — why,  when  I  was  in  the  business,"  he  sniffed,  "I 
never  had  any  trouble  loving  any  lady  I  desired,  nor  getting 
her  if  I  loved  her  long  enough  and  strong  enough.  When 
I  was  a  young  cub  like  you,"  Van  Dorn  waved  his  weed 
grandly  toward  the  young  broker,  "I  used  to  keep  myself 
awake,  cutting  notches  in  my  memory — naming  over  my  con 
quests.  But  now  I  use  it  as  a  man  does  the  sheep  over  the 
fence,  to  put  me  to  sleep,  and  I  haven't  been  able  to  pass  my 
fortieth  birthday  in  the  list  for  two  years,  without  snoozing. 
What  a  fool  a  man  can  make  of  himself  over  calico!  The 
ladies,  God  bless  'em,  have  got  old  John  Barleycorn  beaten 
a  mile,  when  it  comes  to  playing  hell  with  a  man's  life. 
Again  speaking  broadly,  and  allowing  for  certain  exceptions, 
I  should  say — "  he  paused  to  give  the  judicial  pomp  of  re 
flection  to  his  utterances — "the  bigger  fool  the  woman  is, 
the  greater  fool  a  man  makes  of  himself  for  her.  And  all 
for  what?" 

His  young  guest  interjected  the  word  "Love?"  in  the 
pause.  The  Judge  made  a  wry  face  and  continued : 

"Love?  Love — why,  man,  you  talk  like  a  school  girl. 
There  is  no  love.  Love  and  God  are  twin  myths  by  which 
we  explain  the  relation  of  our  fates  to  our  follies.  The  only 
thing  about  me  that  will  live  is  the  blood  I  transmit  to  my 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY  471 

children!     We  live  in  posterity.     As  for  love  and  all  the 
mysteries  of  the  temple — waugh — woof ! "  he  shuddered. 

He  put  back  his  cigar  into  the  corner  of  his  hard  mouth. 
He  was  squinting  cynically  across  the  rolling  golf  course. 
What  he  saw  there  checked  his  talk.  He  opened  his  eyes 
to  get  a  clearer  view.  His  impression  grew  definite  and  un 
mistakable.  There,  half  playing  and  half  sporting,  like 
young  lambs  upon  the  close-cropped  turf,  were  Kenyon 
Adams  and  Lila  Van  Dorn!  They  were  unconscious  of  all 
that  their  gay  antics  disclosed.  They  were  happy,  and  were 
trying  only  to  express  happiness  as  they  ran  together  after 
the  ball,  that  flew  in  front  of  them  like  a  mad  butterfly.  But 
in  the  sad  lore  of  his  bleak  heart,  the  father  read  the  meaning 
of  their  happiness.  Youth  in  love  was  never  innocent  for 
him.  Looking  at  Lila  romping  with  her  lover,  he  turned  sick 
at  heart.  But  he  held  himself  in  hand.  Only  the  zigzag 
scar  on  his  forehead  flashing  white  in  the  pink  of  his  brow 
betrayed  the  turmoil  within  him.  He  tried  to  keep  his  eyes 
off  the  golf  course.  A  sharp  dread  that  he  might  transmit 
himself  in  nature  to  posterity  only  through  the  base  blood  of 
the  Adamses,  struck  him.  He  closed  his  eyes.  But  the  wind 
brought  to  him  the  merriment  of  the  young  voices.  A  jeal 
ousy  of  Kenyon,  and  an  anger  at  him,  flared  up  in  the  father. 
So  Tom  Van  Dorn  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth — and 
batted  his  furtive  eyes,  and  put  on  his  bony  knee  a  mottled, 
nervous  hand,  with  brown  splotches  at  the  wrist,  coming  up 
over  the  veined  furrows  that  led  to  his  tapering  fingers,  as  he 
cried  harshly  in  a  tone  that  once  had  been  soft  and  mellif 
luous,  and  still  was  deep  and  chesty:  "Still  me  with 
flagons,  comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of  love ! ' ' 

He  would  have  gone  away  from  the  torture  that  came,  as 
he  stared  at  the  lovers,  but  his  devil  held  him  there.  He  was 
glad  when  a  noise  of  saw  and  hammer  at  the  lake  drowned 
the  voices  on  the  lawn.  His  gladness  lasted  but  a  moment. 
For  soon  he  saw  the  young  people  quit  chasing  their  crazy 
butterfly  of  a  golf  ball,  and  wander  half  way  up  the  hill  from 
the  lake,  to  sit  in  the  snug  shade  of  a  wide-spreading,  low- 
branched  elm  tree.  Then  the  father  was  nervous,  because  he 
could  not  hear  their  voices.  As  he  sat  with  the  young  broker, 
snarling  at  the  anonymous  phantoms  of  his  past  which  were 


472  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

bedeviling  him,  a  gray  doubt  kept  brushing  across  his  mind. 
He  realized  clearly  that  he  had  no  legal  right  to  question 
Lila's  choice  of  companions.  He  understood  that  the  law 
would  not  justify  anything  that  he  might  do,  or  say,  or  think, 
concerning  her  and  her  fortunes.  Yet  there  unmistakably 
was  the  Van  Dorn  set  to  her  pretty  head  and  a  Van  Dorn 
gesture  in  her  gay  hands  that  had  come  down  from  at  least 
four  generations  in  family  tradition.  And  he  had  no  right 
even  to  be  offended  when  she  would  merge  that  Van  Dorn 
blood  with  the  miserable  Adams  heredity.  His  impotence  in 
the  situation  baffled  him,  and  angered  him.  The  law  was 
final  to  his  mind ;  but  it  did  not  satisfy  his  wrathful  question 
ing  heart.  For  in  his  heart,  he  realized  that  denial  was  not 
escape  from  the  responsibility  he  had  renounced  when  he 
tripped  down  the  steps  of  their  home  and  left  Lila  pleading 
for  him  in  her  mother's  arms.  He  bit  his  ragged  cigar  and 
cursed  his  God,  while  the  young  man  with  Tom  Van  Dorn 
thought,  "Well,  what  a  dour  old  Turk  he  is ! " 

The  hammering  and  sawing,  which  drowned  the  voices  of 
the  young  people  under  the  tree,  came  from  the  new  bathing 
pavilion  near  by.  Grant  Adams  was  working  on  a  two  days' 
job  putting  up  the  pavilion  for  the  summer.  He  was  out 
of  Van  Dorn's  view,  facing  another  angle  of  the  long  three- 
faced  veranda.  Grant  saw  Kenyon  lying  upon  the  turf, 
slim  and  graceful  and  with  the  beauty  of  youth  radiating 
from  him,  and  Grant  wondered,  as  he  worked,  why  his  son 
should  be  there  playing  among  the  hills,  while  the  sons  of 
other  men,  making  much  more  money  than  he — much  more 
money  indeed  than  many  of  the  others  who  flitted  over  the 
green — should  toil  in  the  fumes  of  South  Harvey  and  in  the 
great  industrial  Valley  through  long  hard  hours  of  work, 
that  sapped  their  heads  and  hearts  by  its  monotony  of 
motion,  and  lack  of  purpose.  As  he  gazed  at  the  lovers,  their 
love  did  not  stick  in  his  consciousness — even  if  he  realized  it. 
Their  presence  under  the  elm  tree  at  midday  rose  as  a  prob 
lem  which  deepened  a  furrow  here  and  there  in  his  seamed 
face  and  he  hammered  and  sawed  away  with  a  will,  working 
out  in  his  muscles  the  satisfaction  which  his  mind  could  not 
bring  him. 

As  the  two  fathers  from  different  vistas  looked  upon  their 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     473 

children,  Kenyon  and  Lila  beneath  the  elm  tree  were  shyly 
toying  with  vagrant  dreams  that  trailed  across  their  hearts. 
He  was  looking  up  at  her  and  saying : 

"Lila — who  are  we — you  and  I?  I  have  been  gazing 
at  you  three  minutes  while  you  were  talking,  and  I  see  some 
one  quite  different  from  the  you  I  knew  before.  Looking 
up  at  you,  instead  of  down  at  you,  is  like  transposing  you. 
You  are  strangely  new  in  this  other  key." 

The  girl  did  not  try  to  respond  in  kind — with  her  lips  at 
least.  She  began  teasing  the  youth  about  his  crinkly  hair. 
Breaking  a  twig  as  she  spoke,  she  threw  it  carelessly  at  his 
hair,  and  it  stuck  in  the  closely  curled  locks.  She  laughed 
gayly  at  him.  Perhaps  in  some  way  rather  subtly  than  sud 
denly,  as  by  a  ghostly  messenger  from  afar,  he  may  have 
been  made  aware  of  her  beautiful  body,  of  the  exquisite  lines 
of  her  figure,  of  the  pink  of  her  radiant  skin,  or  the  red  of 
her  girlish  lips.  For  the  consciousness  of  these  things 
seemed  to  spend  his  soul  in  joy. 

The  blazing  eyes  of  Tom  Van  Dorn,  squinting  down  upon 
the  couple  under  the  tree,  could  see  the  grace  that  shone  from, 
a  thousand  reactions  of  their  bodies  and  faces.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  voice  something  from  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 
but  did  not  speak.  Instead  he  yawned  and  cried :  "  And  so 
we  rot  and  we  rot  and  we  rot." 

Now  it  matters  little  what  the  lovers  chattered  about  there 
under  the  elm  tree,  as  they  played  with  sticks  and  pebbles. 
It  was  what  they  would  have  said  that  counts — or  perhaps 
what  they  should  have  said,  if  they  had  been  able  to  voice 
their  sense  of  the  gift  which  the  gods  were  bestowing.  But 
they  were  dumb  humans,  who  threw  pebbles  at  each  other's 
toes,  though  in  the  deep  places  of  their  souls,  far  below  the 
surface  waves  of  bashful  patter,  heart  might  have  spoken  to 
heart  in  passing  thus : 

"Oh,  Lila,  what  is  beauty?  "What  is  it  in  the  soul,  run 
ning  out  glad  to  meet  beauty,  whether  of  line,  of  tone,  of 
color,  of  form,  of  motion,  of  harmony?" 

And  the  answer  might  have  been  trumpeted  back  through 
the  deep : 

"Maybe  beauty  is  the  God  that  is  everywhere  and  every 
thing,  releasing  himself  in  matter.  Perhaps  for  our  eyes  aiid 


474  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  POOL 

ears  and  fingers,  the  immanent  God  had  an  equation,  whose 
answer  is  locked  in  our  souls  that  are  also  a  part  of  God — 
created  in  his  image.  And  when  in  curve  or  line,  in  se 
quence  of  notes  or  harmony,  or  in  thrilling  touch  sense,  the 
equation  is  stated  in  terms  of  radiation,  God  seeking  our 
soul's  answer,  speaks  to  us." 

But  none  of  this  trumpet  call  of  souls  reached  the  two 
fathers  who  were  watching  the  lovers.  For  one  man  was  too 
old  in  selfishness  to  understand,  and  the  other  had  grown 
too  old  in  bearing  others'  burdens  to  know  what  voices  speak 
through  the  soul's  trumpet,  when  love  first  comes  into  the 
heart.  So  the  hammers  hammered  and  the  saws  groaned  in 
the  pavilion,  and  a  hard  heart  hammered  and  a  soul  groaned 
and  a  tongue  babbled  folly  on  the  veranda.  But  under  the 
elm  tree,  eyes  met,  and  across  space  went  the  message  that 
binds  lives  forever.  She  picked  up  a  twig  longer  than  most 
twigs  about  her,  reached  with  it  and  touched  his  forehead 
furtively,  stroked  his  crinkled  hair,  blushing  at  her  boldness. 
His  head  sank  to  the  earth,  he  put  his  face  upon  the  grass, 
and  for  a  second  he  found  joy  in  the  rush  of  tears.  They 
heard  voices,  bringing  the  planet  back  to  them;  but  voices 
far  away.  On  the  hill  across  the  little  valley  they  could  see 
two  earnest  golfers,  working  along  the  sky-line. 

The  couple  on  the  sky:line  hurried  along  in  the  heat.  The 
man  mopped  his  face,  and  his  brown,  hairy  arms,  and  his  big 
sinewy  neck.  The  woman,  rather  thin,  but  fresh  and  with 
the  maidenly  look  of  one  who  isn't  entirely  sure  what  that 
man  will  do  next,  kept  well  in  the  lead. 

1 t Well,  Emma — there's  love's  young  dream  all  right." 
He  stopped  to  puff,  and  waved  at  the  couple  by  the  tree. 
Then  he  hitched  up  his  loose,  baggy  trousers,  gave  a  jerk  to 
his  big  flowing  blue  necktie,  let  fly  at  the  ball  and  cried 
"Fore."  When  he  came  up  to  the  ball  again,  he  was  red 
and  winded.  "Emma,"  he  said,  "let's  go  have  something 
to  eat  at  the  house — my  figure '11  do  for  an  emeritus  bride 
groom — won't  it?"  And  thus  they  strolled  over  the  fields 
and  out  of  the  game. 

But  on  another  hill,  another  couple  in  the  midst  of  a  flock 
of  children  attracted  by  one  of  Mr.  Brotherton's  smashing 
laughs,  looked  down  and  saw  Lila  and  Kenyon.  The  quick 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     475 

eyes  of  love  caught  the  meaning  of  the  figures  under  the 
tree. 

"Look,  mamma — look/'  said  Nathan  Perry,  pointing  to 
ward  the  tree. 

"Oh,  Nate/'  cried  Anne,  " — isn't  it  nice !  Lila  and  Ken- 
yon!" 

"Well,  mamma — are  you  happy?"  asked  Nathan,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  tree  beside  her.  She  nodded  and  directed 
their  glances  to  the  children  and  said  gently,  "And  they 
justify  it— don't  they?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  said,  "Yes,  dear — 
I  suppose  that's  what  the  Lord  gave  us  love  for.  That  is 
why  love  makes  the  world  go  around." 

"And  don't  the  people  who  don't  have  them  miss  it — my! 
Nate,  if  they  only  knew — if  these  bridge-playing,  childless 
ones  knew  how  dear  they  are — what  joy  they  bring — just 
as  children — not  for  anything  else — do  you  suppose  they 
would — " 

"Oh,  you  can't  tell,"  answered  the  young  father.  "Per 
haps  selfish  people  shouldn't  have  children;  or  perhaps  it's 
the  children  that  make  us  unselfish,  and  so  keep  us  happy. 
Maybe  it's  one  of  those  intricate  psychical  reactions,  like  a 
chemical  change — I  don't  know!  But  I  do  know  the  kids 
are  the  best  things  in  the  world." 

She  put  her  hand  in  his  and  squeezed  it.  "You  know, 
Nate,  I  was  just  thinking  to-day  as  I  put  up  the  lunch — I  'm 
a  mighty  lucky  woman.  I  've  had  all  these  children  and  kept 
every  one  so  far;  I've  had  such  joy  in  them — such  joy,  and 
we  haven't  had  death.  Even  little  Annie's  long  sickness,  and 
everything — Oh,  dear,  Nate — but  isn't  she  worth  it — isn't  she 
worth  it?" 

He  kissed  her  hand  and  replied,  "You  know  I'm  so  glad  we 
went  down  to  South  Harvey  to  live,  Anne.  I  can  see — well, 
here's  the  way  it  is.  Lots  of  families  down  there — families 
that  didn't  have  anymore  to  go  on  than  we  had  then,  started 
out,  as  we  did.  They  had  a  raft  of  kids — "  he  laughed, 
"just  as  we  did.  But,  mamma — they're  dead — or  worse, 
they're  growing  up  under-fed,  and  are  hurrying  into  the 
works  or  the  breaker  bins.  I  tell  you,  Anne — here 's  the  thing. 
Those  fathers  and  mothers  didn't  have  any  more  money  than 


476  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

we  had — but  we  did  have  more  and  better  training  than  they 
had.  You  knew  better  than  to  feed  our  kids  trash,  you  knew 
how  to  care  for  them — we  knew  how  to  spend  our  little,  so 
that  it  would  count.  They  didn't.  We  have  ours,  and  they 
have  doctors'  and  undertakers'  bills.  It  isn't  blood  that 
counts  so  much — as  the  difference  in  bringing  up.  We're 
lovers  because  of  our  bringing  up.  Otherwise,  we'd  be  light 
ing  like  cats  and  dogs,  I'd  be  drinking,  you'd  be  slommicking 
around  in  wrappers,  and  the  kids  would  be  on  the  streets." 

The  children  playing  on  the  gravel  bank  were  having  a 
gay  time.  The  mother  called  to  them  to  be  careful  of  their 
clothes,  and  then  replied: 

"Nate,  honestly  I  believe  if  I  had  two  or  three  million 
dollars,  and  could  give  every  girl  in  South  Harvey  a  good 
education — teach  her  how  to  cook  and  keep  house  and  care 
for  babies  before  she  is  eighteen,  that  we  could  change  the 
whole  aspect  of  South  Harvey  in  a  generation.  If  I  had  just 
two  or  three  million  dollars  to  spend — I  could  fill  that  town 
just  as  full  as  Harvey  of  happy  couples  like  us.  Of  course 
there 'd  be  the  other  kind — some  of  them — just  as  there  are 
the  other  kind  in  Harvey — people  like  the  Van  Dorns — but 
they  would  be  the  exception  in  South  Harvey,  as  the  Van 
Dorns  are  the  exception  in  Harvey.  And  two  or  three  mil 
lion  dollars  would  do  it." 

"Yes,  mamma, — that's  the  hell  of  it — the  very  hell  of  it 
that  grinds  my  gizzard — your  father  and  my  father  and 
the  others  who  haven't  done  a  lick  of  the  work — arid  who  are 
entitled  only  to  a  decent  interest  and  promoters'  profits,  have 
taken  out  twenty  million  dollars  from  South  Harvey  in 
dividends  in  the  last  thirty  years — and  this  is  the  result. 
Hell  for  forty  thousand  people  down  there,  and — you  and  I 
and  a  few  dozen  educated  happy  people  are  the  fruit  of  it. 
Sometimes,  Anne,  I  look  at  our  little  flock  and  look  at  you 
so  beautiful,  and  think  of  our  life  so  glorious,  and  wonder 
how  a  just  God  can  permit  it." 

They  looked  at  the  waving  acres  of  blue-grass,  dotted  with 
trees,  at  the  creek  winding  its  way  through  the  cornfields, 
dark  green  and  all  but  ready  to  tassle,  then  up  at  the  clear 
sky,  untainted  with  the  smoke  of  Harvey. 

Then  they  considered  the  years  that  lay  back  of  them. 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY      477 

"I  think,  Nate/'  she  answered,  "that  to  love  really  and  truly 
one  man  or  one  woman  makes  one  love  all  men  and  women. 
I  feel  that  way  even  about  the  little  fellow  that's  coming. 
I  love  him  so,  that  even  he  makes  me  love  everything.  And 
so  I  can't  just  pray  for  him — I  have  to  pray  for  all  the 
mothers  carrying  babies  and  all  the  babies  in  the  world.  I 
think  when  love  comes  into  the  world  it  is  immortal.  We  die, 
but  the  sum  of  love  we  live,  we  leave ;  it  goes  on ;  it  grows. 
It  is  the  way  God  gets  into  the  world.  Oh,  Nate,"  she 
cried,  "I  want  to  live  in  the  next  world — personally — with 
you — to  know  the  very  you.  I  don't  want  the  impersonal 
immortality — I  want  just  you.  But,  dear — I — why,  I'd  give 
up  even  that  if  I  could  be  sure  that  the  love  we  live  would 
never  leave  this  earth.  Think  what  the  love  of  Christ  did 
for  the  earth  and  lie  is  still  with  us  in  spirit.  And  I  know 
when  we  go  away — when  any  lovers  go  away,  the  love  they 
have  lived  will  never  leave  this  earth.  It  will  live  and  joy — 
yes,  and  agonize  too  at  the  injustice  of  the  world — live  and 
be  crucified  over  and  over  again,  so  long  as  injustice  exists. 
Only  as  love  grows  in  the  world,  and  is  hurt — is  crucified — 
will  wrongs  be  righted,  will  the  world  be  saved." 

He  patted  her  hand  for  a  minute. 

"Kyle,  Nate,  Annie — come  here,  children,"  cried  the  fa 
ther.  After  some  repetition  of  the  calling,  they  came  troop 
ing  up,  asking:  "What  is  it?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  answered  the  father,  "we  just  wanted 
to  kiss  you  and  feel  and  see  if  your  wings  were  sprouting,  so 
that  we  could  break  them  off  before  you  fly  away,"  where 
upon  there  was  a  hugging  bee  all  around,  and  while  every 
one  was  loving  every  one  else,  a  golf  ball  flew  by  them,  and 
a  moment  later  the  white-clad,  unbent  figure  of  Mrs.  Bedelia 
Satterthwaite  Nesbit  appeared,  bare-headed  and  bare-armed, 
and  behind  her  trotted  the  devoted  white  figure  of  the  Doctor, 
carrying  two  golf  sticks. 

"Chained  to  her  chariot — to  make  a  Roman  holiday," 
piped  the  Doctor.  "She's  taking  this  exercise  for  my 
health." 

"Well,  James,"  replied  his  wife  rather  definitely,  "I  know 
you  need  it !" 

"And  that  settles  it,"  cried  the  little  man  shrill}',  "say, 


478  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Nate,  if  we  men  ever  get  the  ballot,  I  'm  going  to  take  a  stand 
for  liberty. ' ' 

"  I  ?m  with  you,  Doctor, ' '  replied  the  young  man. 

"Nate,"  he  mocked  in  his  comical  falsetto,  "as  you  grow 
older  and  get  further  and  further  from  your  mother 's  loving 
care,  you'll  find  that  there  was  some  deep-seated  natural  rea 
son  why  we  men  should  lead  the  sheltered  life  and  leave  the 
hurly-burly  of  existence  to  the  women. ' ' 

From  long  habit,  in  such  cases  Mrs.  Nesbit  tried  not  to 
smile  and,  from  long  habit,  failed.  "Doctor  Jim,"  she  cried 
as  he  picked  up  her  ball,  and  set  it  for  her,  "don't  make  a 
fool  of  yourself." 

The  little  man  patted  the  earth  under  the  ball,  and  looked 
up  and  said  as  he  took  her  hand,  and  obviously  squeezed  it 
for  the  spectators,  as  he  rose, 

"My  dear — it's  unnecessary.  You  have  made  one  of  me 
every  happy  minute  for  forty  years,"  and  smiling  at  the 
lovers  and  their  children,  he  took  the  hand  held  out  for  him 
after  she  had  sent  the  ball  over  the  hill,  and  they  went  away 
as  he  chuckled  over  his  shoulder  and  cheeped:  "Into  the 
twilight's  purple  rim — through  all  the  world  she  followed 
him,"  and  trotting  behind  her  as  she  went  striding  into  the 
sunset,  they  disappeared  over  the  hill. 

When  they  had  disappeared  Anne  began  thinking  of  her 
picnic.  She  and  Nathan  left  the  children  at  the  lake,  and 
walked  to  the  club  house  for  the  baskets.  On  the  veranda 
they  met  Captain  Morton  in  white  flannels  with  a  gorgeous 
purple  necktie  and  a  panama  hat  of  a  price  that  made 
Anne  gasp.  He  came  bustling  up  to  Anne  and  Nathan  and 
said : 

"Surprise  party — I'm  going  to  give  the  girls  a  little  sur 
prise  party  next  week — next  Tuesday,  and  I  want  you  to 
come — what  say?  Out  here — next  Tuesday  night — going 
to  have  all  the  old  friends — every  one  that  ever  bought  a 
window  hanger,  or  a  churn,  or  a  sewing  machine,  or  a  Peer 
less  cooker,  or  a  Household  Horse — but  keep  it  quiet — sur 
prise  on  the  girls,  eh?" 

When  they  had  accepted,  the  Captain  lowered  his  voice 
and  said  mysteriously:  "  'Y  gory — the  old  man's  got  some 
ginger  in  him  yet — eh?"  and  bustled  away  with  a  card  in 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     479 

his  hands  containing  the  names  of  the  invited  guests,  check 
ing  the  Perrys  from  the  list  as  he  went. 

As  Captain  Morton  rounded  the  corner  of  the  veranda  and 
came  into  the  out-of-door  dining  room,  he  found  Margaret 
Van  Dorn,  sitting  at  a  table  by  a  window  with  Ahab  Wright 
— flowing  white  side  whiskers  and  white  necktie  inviolate  and 
pristine  in  their  perfection.  Ahab  was  clearly  confused 
when  the  Captain  sailed  into  the  room.  For  there  was  a 
breeziness  about  the  Captain's  manner,  and  although  Ahab 
respected  the  Captain's  new  wealth,  still  his  years  of  poverty 
and  the  meanness  of  his  former  calling  as  a  peddler  of  in 
significant  things,  made  Ahab  Wright  feel  a  certain  squeam- 
ishness  when  he  had  to  receive  Captain  Morton  upon  the 
term  which,  in  Ahab 's  mind,  a  man  of  so  much  money  should 
be  received. 

Mrs.  Van  Dorn  was  using  her  eyes  on  Ahab.  Perhaps 
they  cast  the  spell.  She  was  leaning  forward  with  her  chin 
in  her  hands,  with  both  elbows  on  the  table,  and  Ahab 
Wright,  of  the  proud,  prosperous  and  highly  respectable 
firm  of  Wright  &  Perry,  was  in  much  the  mental  and  moral 
attitude  of  the  bird  when  the  cat  creeps  up  to  the  tree-trunk. 
He  was  not  unhappy ;  not  terrorized — just  curious  and  rather 
resistless,  knowing  that  if  danger  ever  came  he  could  fly. 
And  Mrs.  Van  Dorn,  who  had  tired  of  the  toys  at  hand,  was 
adventuring  rather  aimlessly  into  the  cold  blue  eyes  of  Ahab, 
to  see  what  might  be  in  them. 

"For  many  years,"  she  was  saying,  and  pronounced  it 
"yee-ahs,"  having  remembered  at  the  moment  to  soften  her 
"r's,"  "I  have  been  living  on  a  highah  plane  whey  ah  one 
ignoahs  the  futuah  and  foahgets  the  pahst.  On  this  plane 
one  rises  to  his  full  capacity  of  soul  strength,  without  the 
hampah  of  remoahs  or  the  terror  of  a  vindictive  Provi 
dence." 

She  might  as  well  have  been  reciting  the  alphabet  back 
wards  so  far  as  Ahab  understood  or  cared  what  she  said. 
He  was  fascinated  by  her  resemblance  to  a  pink  and  white 
marshmallow — rather  over-powdered.  But  she  was  still  for 
tifying  herself  from  that  little  black  box  in  the  farthest 
corner  in  the  bottom  drawer  of  her  dresser — and  fortifying 
herself  with  two  brown  pellets  instead  of  one.  So  she  ogled 


430  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Ahab  Wright  by  way  of  diversion,  and  sat  in  the  recesses 
of  her  soul  and  wondered  what  she  would  say  next. 

The  Captain  pulling  his  panama  off  made  a  tremendous 
bow  as  Margaret  was  saying:  "Those  who  grahsp  the 
great  Basic  Truths  in  the  Science  of  Being — "  and  just  as 
the  Captain  was  about  to  open  his  mouth  to  invite  Ahab 
Wright  to  his  party,  plumb  came  the  ghastly  consciousness  to 
him  that  the  Van  Dorns  were  not  on  his  list.  For  the  Van 
Doras,  however  securely  they  were  entrenched  socially 
among  the  new  people  who  had  no  part  in  the  town's  old 
quarrel  with  Tom,  however  the  oil  and  gas  and  smelter 
people  and  the  coal  magnates  may  have  received  the  Van 
Dorns — still  they  were  under  the  social  ban  of  the  only  social 
Harvey  that  Captain  Morton  knew.  So  as  a  man  falling 
from  a  balloon  gets  his  balance,  the  Captain  gasped  as  he 
came  up  from  his  low  bow  and  said : 

"Madam,  I  says  to  myself  just  now  as  I  looks  over  to 
that  elm  tree  yonder,"  he  pointed  to  the  place  were  Keiiyon 
and  Lila  were  sitting,  "soon  we'll  be  having  the  fourth  gen 
eration  here  in  Harvey,  and  I  says,  that  will  interest  Tom! 
An  'y  gory,  ma'am,  as  I  saw  you  sitting  here,  I  says  as  it 
was  well  in  my  mind,  ' Here's  Tom's  lady  love,  and  I'll  just 
go  over  and  pass  my  congratulations  on  to  Tom  through  the 
apple  of  his  eye,  as  you  may  say,  and  riot  bother  him  and  the 
young  man  around  the  corner  there  in  their  hoss  trade,  eh? 
What  say?"  He  was  flushed  and  red,  and  he  did  not  know 
exactly  where  to  stop,  but  it  was  out — and  after  a  few  spar 
ring  sentences,  he  broke  away  from  the  clutch  of  his  bungling 
intrusion  and  was  gone.  But  as  the  Captain  left  the  couple 
at  the  table,  the  spell  was  broken.  Life  had  intruded,  and 
Ahab  rose  hastily  and  went  his  way. 

Margaret  Van  Dorn  sat  looking  out  at  a  dreary  world. 
Even  the  lovers  by  the  elm  tree  did  not  quicken  her  pulse. 
Scarcely  more  did  they  interest  her  than  her  vapid  adventure 
with  Ahab  Wright.  All  romantic  adventure,  personal  or  vi 
carious,  was  as  ashes  on  her  lips.  But  emotion  was  not  all 
dead  in  her.  As  she  gazed  at  Lila  and  Kenyon,  Margaret 
wondered  if  her  husband  could  see  the  pair.  Her  first  emo 
tional  reaction  was  a  gloating  sense  that  he  would  be  boiling 
with  humiliation  and  rage  when  he  saw  his  child  so  obviously 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     481 

and  publicly,  even  if  unconsciously,  adoring  an  Adams.  So 
she  exulted  in  the  Van  Dorn  discomfiture.  As  her  first  spite 
ful  impulse  wore  away,  a  sense  of  desolation  overcame  Mar 
garet  Van  Dorn.  Probably  she  had  no  regrets  that  she  had 
abandoned  Kenyon.  For  years  she  had  nursed  a  daily  horror 
that  the  door  which  hid  her  secret  might  swing  open,  but  that 
horror  was  growing  stale.  She  felt  that  the  door  was  forever 
sealed  by  time.  So  in  the  midst  of  a  world  at  its  spring,  a 
budding  world,  a  world  of  young  mating,  a  gay  world  going 
out  on  its  vast  yearly  voyage  to  hunt  new  life  in  new  joy,  a 
quest  for  ever  new  yet  old  as  God's  first  smile  on  a  world 
unborn,  this  woman  sat  in  a  drab  and  dreary  desolation. 
Even  her  spite  withered  as  she  sat  playing  with  her  tall 
glass.  And  as  spite  chilled,  her  loneliness  grew. 

She  knew  better  than  any  one  else  in  Harvey — better  even 
than  the  Nesbits — what  Kenyon  Adams  really  promised  in 
achievement  and  fame.  They  knew  that  he  had  some  Euro 
pean  recognition.  Margaret  in  Europe  had  been  amazed  to 
see  how  far  he  was  going.  In  New  York  and  Boston,  she 
knew  what  it  meant  to  have  her  son 's  music  on  the  best  con 
cert  programs.  Her  realization  of  her  loss  increased  her 
loneliness.  But  regret  did  not  produce  remorse.  She  was 
always  and  finally  glad  that  the  door  was  inexorably  sealed 
upon  her  secret.  She  saw  only  her  husband  angered  by  her 
son's  association  with  her  husband's  daughter,  and  when 
malice  spent  itself,  she  was  weary  and  lonely  and  out  of 
humor,  and  longed  to  retire  to  her  fortification. 

After  Captain  Morton  had  bowed  himself  away  from  Mar 
garet  Van  Dorn,  he  stood  at  the  other  end  of  the  veranda 
looking  down  toward  the  lake.  The  carpenters  were  quitting 
work  for  the  day  on  the  new  bathing  pavilion  and  he  saw 
the  tall  figure  of  Grant  Adams  in  the  group.  He  hurried 
down  the  steps  near  by,  and  came  bustling  over  to  Grant. 

' '  Just  the  man  I  want  to  see !  I  saw  Jap  chasing  around 
the  golf  course  with  Buthie  and  invited  him,  but  he  said 
your  pa  wasn't  very  spry  and  mightn't  be  uptown  to 
morrow,  so  you  just  tell  him  for  me  that  you  and  he  are 
to  come  to  my  party  here  next  Tuesday  night — surprise 
party  for  the  girls — going  to  break  something  to  them  they 
don't  know  anything  about — what  say?  Tell  your  pa  that 


482  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

his  old  army  friend  is  going  to  send  his  car — my  new  car — 
great,  big,  busting  gray  battleship  for  your  pa — makes  Tom's 
car  look  like  an  ash  cart.  Don 't  let  your  pa  refuse.  I  want 
to  bring  you  all  up  here  to  the  party  in  that  car  in  style — 
you  and  Amos  and  Jap  and  Kenyon !  eh  ?  Say,  Grant — tell 
me — "  he  wagged  his  head  at  Kenyon  and  Lila  still  loitering 
by  the  tree.  "What's  Kenyon 's  idea  in  loafing  around  so 
much  here  in  Harvey?  He's  old  enough  to  go  to  work. 
What  say?"  Grant  tried  to  get  it  to  the  Captain  that  Ken 
yon 's  real  job  in  the  world  was  composing  music,  and  that 
sometimes  he  tired  of  cities  and  came  down  to  Harvey  to  get 
the  sunshine  and  prairie  grass  and  the  woods  and  the  waters 
of  his  childhood  into  his  soul.  But  the  Captain  waved  the 
idea  aside,  "Nothing  in  the  fiddling  business,  Grant — two 
dollars  a  day  and  find  yourself,  is  all  the  best  of  'em  make, ' ' 
protested  the  Captain.  "Let  him  do  like  I  done — get  at 
something  sound  and  practical  early  in  life  and  'y  gory,  man 
— look  at  me.  What  say?" 

Grant  did  not  answer,  but  when  the  Captain  veered  around 
to  the  subject  of  his  party,  Grant  promised  to  bring  the  whole 
Adams  family.  A  moment  later  the  Captain  saw  the  Sands 's 
motor  car  on  the  road  before  them,  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  Grant — here  are  the  Sandses — I've  got  to 
invite  them — Hi  there,  Dan'l,  come  alongside."  While  the 
Captain  was  inviting  Daniel  Sands,  the  Doctor's  electric 
came  purring  up  the  hill  to  the  club  house  driven  by  Laura 
Van  Dorn.  Grant  was  trotting  ahead  to  join  the  other  car 
penters  who  were  going  to  the  street-car  station,  when  Laura 
passing,  hailed  him: 

"Wait  a  minute,  Grant,  till  I  take  this  to  father,  and  I'll 
go  with  you. ' ' 

As  Laura  Van  Dorn  turned  her  car  around  the  club  house, 
she  stopped  it  under  the  veranda  overlooking  the  golf-course 
and  the  rolling  prairie  furrowed  by  the  slowly  winding 
stream.  The  afternoon  sun  slanting  upon  the  landscape 
brought  out  all  its  beauty — its  gay  greens,  its  somber,  con 
trasting  browns,  and  its  splashing  of  color  from  the  fruit 
trees  across  the  valley  that  blushed  pink  and  went  white  in 
the  first  unsure  ecstasies  of  new  life.  Then  she  saw  Ken 
yon  and  Lila  slowly  walking  up  the  knoll  to  the  road. 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     483 

The  mother  noted  with  quick  instinct  the  way  their  hands 
jostled  together  as  they  walked.  The  look  that  flashed  from 
their  eyes  when  their  hands  touched — the  look  of  proprietor 
ship  in  each  other — told  Laura  Van  Dorn  that  her  life 's  work 
with  Lila  was  finished.  The  daughter's  day  of  choice  had 
come ;  and  whatever  of  honesty,  whatever  of  sense,  and  senti 
ment,  whatever  of  courage  or  conscience  the  mother  had  put 
into  the  daughter's  heart  and  mind  was  ready  for  its  life 
long  test.  Lila  had  embarked  on  her  own  journey;  and 
motherhood  was  ended  for  Laura  Van  Dorn. 

As  she  looked  at  the  girl,  the  mother  saw  herself,  but  she 
was  not  embittered  at  the  sad  ending  of  her  own  journey 
along  the  road  which  her  daughter  was  taking.  For  years 
she  had  accepted  as  the  fortunes  of  war,  what  had  come  to 
her  with  her  marriage,  and  because  she  had  the  daughter,  the 
mother  knew  that  she  was  gainer  after  all.  For  to  realize 
motherhood  even  with  one  child,  was  to  taste  the  best  that 
life  held.  So  her  face  reflected,  as  a  cloud  reflects  the  glory 
of  the  dawn,  something  of  the  radiance  that  shone  in  the  two 
young  faces  before  her ;  and  in  her  faith  she  laid  small  stress 
upon  the  particular  one  beside  her  daughter.  Not  his  grow 
ing  fame,  not  his  probable  good  fortune,  inspired  her  satis 
faction.  When  she  considered  him  at  all  as  her  daughter's 
lover,  she  only  reflected  on  the  fact  that  all  she  knew  of 
Kenyon  was  honest  and  frank  and  kind.  Then  she  dismissed 
him  from  her  thoughts. 

The  mother  standing  on  the  hillock  looking  at  the  youth 
and  maiden  sauntering  toward  her,  felt  the  serene  reliance  in 
the  order  of  things  that  one  has  who  knows  that  the  worst 
life  can  do  to  a  brave,  wise,  kind  heart,  is  not  bad.  For  she 
had  felt  the  ruthless  wrenches  of  the  senseless  wheels  of  fate 
upon  her  own  flesh.  Yet  she  had  come  from  the  wheels 
bruised,  and  in  agony,  but  not  broken,  not  beaten.  Her  peace 
of  mind  was  not  passive.  It  amounted  to  a  militant  pride 
in  the  strength  and  beauty  of  the  soul  she  had  equipped 
for  the  voyage.  Laura  Van  Dorn  was  sure  of  Lila  and  was 
happy.  Her  eyes  filled  with  grateful  tears  as  she  looked 
down  upon  her  daughter. 

Her  father,  toddling  ahead  of  Mrs.  Nesbit  a  hundred  paces, 
reached  the  car  first.  She  nodded  at  the  young  people 


484  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

trudging  up  the  slope.  ''Yes/'  said  the  Doctor,  "we  have 
been  watching  them  for  half  an  hour.  Seems  like  the  voice 
of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land." 

The  daughter  alighted  from  the  runabout,  her  father  got 
in  and  waited  for  his  wife.  The  three  turned  their  backs 
on  the  approaching  lovers  and  pretended  not  to  see  them. 
As  Laura  walked  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  she  found 
Grant  waiting  for  her  at  the  car  station,  and  the  two  having 
missed  the  car  that  the  other  carpenters  had  taken,  stood 
under  the  shed  waiting. 

"Well — Laura,"  he  asked,  "are  you  leaving  the  idle  rich 
for  the  worthy  poor?"  She  laughed  and  explained: 

"The  electric  was  for  father  and  mother,  and  so  long  as 
I  have  to  go  down  to  my  girls'  class  in  South  Harvey  this 
evening  for  their  picnic,  I'm  going  to  ride  in  your  car,  if 
you  don't  mind?" 

The  street  car  came  wailing  down  on  them  and  when  they 
had  taken  a  rear  seat  on  the  trailer  together,  Grant  began: 
"I'm  glad  you've  come  just  now — just  to-night.  I've  been 
anxious  to  see  you.  I've  got  some  things  to  talk  over — 
mighty  big  things — for  me.  In  the  first  place — " 

' '  In  the  first  place  and  before  I  forget  it,  let  me  tell  you  the 
good  news.  A  telegram  has  just  come  from  the  capital  to 
father,  saying  that  the  State  supreme  court  had  upheld  his 
labor  bill — his  and  your  bill  that  went  through  the  refer 
endum." 

"  'Referendum  J.?  probably  was  the  judge  who  wrote  the 
opinion,"  said  Grant  grimly.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  the 
cooling  breeze  of  the  late  afternoon  played  with  his  hair, 
without  fluttering  the  curly,  wiry  red  poll,  turning  light 
yellow  with  the  years.  "Well,  whoever  influenced  the  court 
— I'm  glad  that's  over.  The  men  have  been  grumbling  for 
a  year  and  more  because  we  couldn't  get  the  benefits  of  the 
law.  But  their  suits  are  pending — and  now  they  ought  to 
have  their  money." 

As  the  car  whined  along  through  the  prairie  streets.  Grant, 
who  had  started  to  speak  twice,  at  last  said  abruptly,  "I've 
got  to  cut  loose."  He  turned  around  so  that  his  eyes  could 
meet  hers  and  went  on :  "Your  father  and  George  Brother- 
ton  and  a  lot  of  our  people  seem  to  think  that  we  can  patch 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY      485 

things  up — I  mean  this  miserable  profit  system.  They  think 
by  paying  the  workmen  for  accidents  and  with  eight  hours, 
a  living  wage,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  we  can  work  out 
the  salvation  of  labor.  I  used  to  think  that  too;  but  it 
won't  do,  Laura — I've  gone  clean  to  the  end  of  that  road, 
and  there's  nothing  in  it.  And  I'm  going  to  cut  loose. 
That's  what  I  want  to  see  you  about.  There's  nothing  in 
this  step-at-a-time  business.  I'm  for  the  revolution!" 

She  showed  clearly  that  she  was  surprised,  and  he  seemed 
to  find  some  opposition  in  her  countenance,  for  he  hurried 
on:  "The  Kingdom — I  mean  the  Democracy  of  labor — is  at 
hand;  the  day  is  at  its  dawn.  I  want  to  throw  my  weight 
for  the  coming  of  the  Democracy. ' ' 

His  voice  was  full  of  emotion  as  he  cried : 

''Laura — Laura,  I  know  what  you  think;  you  want  me 
to  wait;  you  want  me  to  help  on  the  miserable  patchwork 
job  of  repairing  the  profit  system.  But  I  tell  you — I'm  for 
the  revolution,  and  with  all  the  love  in  my  heart — I'm  go 
ing  to  throw  myself  into  it ! " 

No  one  sat  in  the  seat  before  them,  as  they  whirled  through 
the  lanes  leading  to  town,  and  he  rested  his  head  in  his 
hand  and  put  his  elbow  on  the  forward  seat. 

''Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked,  looking  anx 
iously  into  her  troubled  face.  ' '  I  have  been  feeling  strongly 
now  for  a  month — waiting  to  see  you — also  waiting  to  be 
dead  sure  of  myself.  Now  1  am  sure!"  The  mad  light  in 
his  eye  and  the  zealot's  enthusiasm  flaming  in  his  battered 
face,  made  the  woman  pause  a  moment  before  she  replied: 

"Well,"  she  smiled  as  she  spoke,  "don't  you  think  you  are 
rather  rushing  me  off  my  feet?  I've  seen  you  coming  up  to 
it  for  some  time — but  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  far  along 
with  your  conviction." 

She  paused  and  then :  "Of  course,  Grant,  the  Socialists — 
I  mean  the  revolutionary  group — even  the  direct  action 
people — have  their  proper  place  in  the  scheme  of  things — 
but,  Grant — "  she  looked  earnestly  at  him  with  an  anxious 
face,  "they  are  the  scouts — the  pioneers  ahead  of  the  main 
body  of  the  troops!  And,  Grant,"  she  spoke  sadly,  "that's 
a  hard  place — can't  you  find  enough  fighting  back  with  the 
main  body  of  the  troops — back  with  the  army  ? ' ' 


486  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

He  beat  the  seat  with  his  iron  claw  impatiently  and  cried : 
"No — no — I'm  without  baggage  or  equipment.  I'm  trav 
eling  light.  I  must  go  forward.  They  need  me  there.  I 
must  go  where  the  real  danger  is.  I  must  go  to  point  the 
way." 

"But  what  is  the  way,  Grant — what  is  it?  You  don't 
know — any  more  than  we  do — what  is  beyond  the  next  dec 
ade's  fight!  What  is  the  way  you  are  going  to  point  out 
so  fine  and  gay — what  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  doggedly.  "I  only  know 
I  must  go.  The  scouts  never  know  where  they  are  going. 
Every  great  movement  has  its  men  who  set  out  blindly,  full 
of  faith,  full  of  courage,  full  of  joy,  happy  to  fail  even  in 
showing  what  is  not  the  way — if  they  cannot  find  the  path. 
I  must  go,"  he  cried  passionately,  "with  those  who  leave 
their  homes  to  mark  the  trail — perhaps  a  guide  forward, 
perhaps  as  a  warning  away — but  still  to  serve.  I'm  going 
out  to  preach  the  revolution  for  I  know  that  the  day  of  the 
Democracy  of  labor  is  at  hand!  It  is  all  but  dawning." 

She  saw  the  exultation  upon  him  that  hallowed  his  seamed 
features  and  she  could  not  speak.  But  when  she  got  herself 
in  hand  she  said  calmly:  "But,  Grant — that's  stuff  and 
nonsense — there  is  no  revolution.  There  can  be  no  Democ 
racy  of  labor,  so  long  as  labor  is  what  it  is.  We  all  want 
to  help  labor — we  know  that  it  needs  help.  But  there  can 
be  no  Democracy  of  labor  until  labor  finds  itself;  until  it 
gets  capacity  for  handling  big  affairs,  until  it  sees  more 
clearly  what  is  true  and  what  is  false.  Just  now  labor  is 
awakening,  is  growing  conscious — a  little — but,  Grant,  come 
now,  my  good  friend,  listen,  be  sensible,  get  down  to  earth. 
Can't  you  see  your  fine  pioneering  arid  your  grand  scouting 
won't  help — not  now?" 

"And  can't  you  understand,"  he  replied  almost  angrily, 
"that  unless  I  or  some  one  else  who  can  talk  to  these  people 
does  go  out  and  preach  a  definite  ideal,  a  realizable  hope — 
even  though  it  may  not  be  realized,  even  though  it  may  not 
take  definite  shape — they  will  never  wake  up?  Can't  you 
see,  girl,  that  when  labor  is  ready  for  the  revolution — it  won't 
need  the  revolution?  Can't  you  see  that  unless  we  preach 
the  revolution,  they  will  never  be  ready  for  it?  When  the 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     487 

workers  can  stand  together,  can  feel  class  consciousness  and 
strike  altogether,  can  develop  organizing  capacity  enough  to 
organize,  to  run  their  own  affairs — then  the  need  for  class 
consciousness  will  pass,  and  the  demand  for  the  revolution 
will  be  over?  Can't  you  see  that  I  must  go  out  blindly  and 
cry  discontent  to  these  people?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  and  answered,  "I  don't 
know,  Grant — I  don't  know." 

They  were  coming  into  town,  and  every  few  blocks  the 
car  was  taking  on  new  passengers.  She  spoke  low  and  almost 
whispered  when  she  answered  : 

"I  only  know  that  I  believe  in  you — you  are  my  faith; 
you  are  my  social  gospel."  She  paused,  hesitated,  flushed 
slightly,  and  said,  "  Where  you  go  I  shall  go,  and  your  people 
shall  be  my  people !  Only  do — Oh,  do  consider  this  well 
before  you  take  the  final  step." 

''Laura,  I  must  go,"  he  returned  stubbornly.  "I  am  go 
ing  to  preach  the  revolution  of  love — the  Democracy  of  labor 
founded  on  the  theory  that  the  Holy  Ghost  is  in  every  heart 
— poor  as  well  as  rich — rich  as  well  as  poor.  I'm  not  going 
to  preach  against  the  rich — but  against  the  system  that 
makes  a  few  men  rich  without  much  regard  to  their  talent,  at 
the  expense  of  all  the  rest,  without  much  regard  to  their 
talents." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  as  he  turned  his  blue  eyes  upon 
her  in  a  kind  of  delirium  of  conviction.  He  hurried  on  as 
their  car  rattled  through  the  town: 

"We  must  free  master  as  well  as  slave.  For  while  there 
is  slavery — while  the  profit  system  exists — the  mind  of  the 
slave  and  the  mind  of  the  master  will  be  cursed  with  it. 
There  can  be  no  love,  no  justice  between  slave  and  master — 
only  deceit  and  violence  on  each  side,  and  I'm  going  out  to 
preach  the  revolution — to  call  for  the  end  to  a  system  that 
keeps  love  out  of  the  world." 

"Well,  then,  Grant,"  said  the  woman  as  the  car  jangled 
its  way  down  Market  Street,  "hurrah  for  the  revolution." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  and  they  rode  without  speaking  until 
they  reached  South  Harvey.  He  left  her  at  the  door  of  her 
kindergarten,  and  a  group  of  young  girls,  waiting  for  her, 
surrounded  her. 


488  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

When  he  reached  his  office,  he  found  Violet  Hogan  work 
ing  at  her  desk. 

"You'll  find  all  your  mail  opened,  and  I've  noted  the 
things  that  have  been  attended  to,"  she  said,  as  she  turned 
to  him.  "I'm  due  over  to  the  girls'  class  with  Miss  Laura— 
I'm  helping  her  to-night  with  her  picnic." 

Grant  nodded,  and  fell  to  his  work.  Violet  went  on : 
"The  letters  for  your  signature  are  here  on  my  desk. 
Money  seems  to  be  coming  in.  New  local  showing  up  down 
in  Magnus— from  the  tile  works."  She  rose,  put  on  her 
coat  and  hat,  and  said  as  she  stood  in  the  door,  "To-mor 
row  will  be  your  day  in— won't  it?"  He  nodded  at  his 
work,  and  she  called  out,  "Well,— bye,  bye— I'll  be  in  about 
noon." 

Daylight  faded  and  he  turned  on  the  electric  above  his 
desk  and  was  going  over  his  work,  making  notations  on  let 
ters  for  Violet,  when  he  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs.     He 
recognized  the  familiar  step  of  Henry  Fenn. 
"Come  in — come  in,  Henry,"  cried  Grant. 
Fenn  appeared,  saw  Grant  at  his  work,  slipped  into  a  chair 
and  said: 

''Now  go  right  on— don't  mind  me,  young  man."  Fenn 
pulled  a  newspaper  from  his  cheap  neat  coat,  and  sat  read 
ing  it,  under  a  light  that  he  made  for  himself  at  Violet's 
desk.  The  light  fell  on  his  thin  whitening  hair — still  coarse, 
and  close  cropped.  In  his  clean,  washed-out  face  there  was 
the  faded  glow  of  the  man  who  had  been  the  rising  young  at 
torney  thirty  years  before.  Grant  knew  that  Fenn  did  not 
expect  the  work  to  stop,  so  he  went  on  with  it.  "I 'm  going 
to  supper  about  eight  o'clock,"  said  Grant,  and  asked: 
"Will  that  be  all  right?" 

" Don't  mind  me,"  returned  Fenn,  and  smiled  with  a 
dim  reflection  of  the  old  incandescence  of  his  youth. 

Fenn's  hands  trembled  a  little,  but  his  eyes  were  steady 
and  his  voice  clear.  His  clothes  were  shabby  but  decent, 
and  his  whole  appearance  was  that  of  one  who  is  making  it 
a  point  to  keep  up.  When  Grant  had  finished  his  corre 
spondence,  and  was  sealing  up  his  letters,  Fenn  lent  a  hand 
and  began : 

"Well,    Grant,   I'm   in   trouble— Oh,   it's  not  that,"   he 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     489 

laughed  as  Grant  looked  quickly  into  the  clean,  alert  old  face. 
"That's  not  bothered  me  for — Oh,  for  two  years  now.  But 
it's  Violet — she  wants  me  to  marry  her."  He  blurted  it  out 
as  if  it  had  been  pent  in,  and  was  hard  to  hold. 

"Why — well — what  makes  you — well,  has  she  proposed, 
Henry?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

' '  Naw — of  course  not, ' '  answered  Fenn.  ' '  Boy,  you  don 't 
know  anything  about  women." 

Fenn  shook  his  head  knowingly,  and  winked  one  eye 
slowly.  "Children — she's  set  the  children  on  me.  You 
know,  Grant — "  he  turned  his  smile  on  with  what  candle- 
power  he  could  muster,  "that's  my  other  weakness — chil 
dren.  And  they're  the  nicest  children  in  the  world.  But  I 
can't — I  tell  you,  man,  I  can't,"  protested  Mr.  Fenn,  as 
if  he  believed  Grant  in  league  with  the  woman  to  kidnap 
him. 

"Well,  then,  don't,"  said  Grant,  rising  and  gathering  up 
his  mail. 

"But  how  can  I  help  it?"  Fenn  cried  helplessly.  "What 
can  a  man  do?  Those  kids  need  a  father.  I  need  a 
family — I've  always  needed  a  family — but  I  don't  want 
Violet — nor  any  one  else."  Grant  towed  him  along  to  the 
restaurant,  and  they  sat  alone.  After  Grant  had  ordered 
his  supper  he  asked,  "Henry — why  can't  you  marry  Vio 
let?  She's  a  sensible,  honest  woman — she's  got  over  her 
foolishness ;  what 's  wrong  with  her  ? ' ' 

"Why,  of  course,  she  is  a  good  woman.  If  you'd  see  her 
chasing  out  nights — picking  up  girls,  mothering  'em,  loving 
'em,  working  with  'em — she  knows  their  language;  she  can 
talk  to  'em  so  they  get  it.  And  I've  known  her  time  and 
again  to  get  scent  of  a  new  girl  over  there  at  Bessie  Wilson's 
and  go  after  her  and  pull  her  out  and  start  her  right  again. 
I  tell  you,  Grant,  Violet  has  her  weaknesses — as  to  hair 
ribbons  and  shirtwaists  and  frills  for  the  kids — but  she's 
got  a  heart,  Grant — a  mighty  big  heart." 

' '  Then  why  not  marry  her  ? ' '  persisted  Grant. 

"That's  just  it,"  answered  Fenn. 

He  looked  hopelessly  at  Grant  and  finally  said  as  he 
reached  his  hands  across  the  table  and  grasped  Grant's  big 
flinty  paw,  "Grant — let  me  tell  you  something— it 's  Mar- 


490  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

garet.  I'm  a  fool — a  motley  fool  i'  the  forest,  Grant,  but  I 
can't  help  it;  I  can't  help  it,"  he  cried.  "So  long  as  she 
lives — she  may  need  me.  I  don't  trust  that  damn  scoundrel, 
Grant.  She  may  need  me,  and  I  stand  ready  to  go  to  hell  it 
self  with  her  if  I  live  a  thousand  years.  It's  not  that  I  want 
her  any  more ;  but,  Grant — maybe  you  know  her ;  maybe 
you  understand.  She  used  to  hate  you  for  some  reason,  and 
maybe  that  will  help  you  to  know  how  I  feel.  But — I  know 
I'm  weak — God  knows  I'm  putty  in  my  soul.  And  I'm 
ashamed.  But  I  mustn't  get  married.  It  wouldn't  be  fair. 
It  wouldn't  be  square  to  Violet,  nor  the  kids,  nor  to  any  one. 
So  long  as  Margaret  is  on  this  earth — it's  my  job  to  stand 
guard  and  wait  till  she  needs  me. ' ' 

He  turned  a  troubled,  heartbroken  face  up  to  the  younger 
man  and  concluded, "I  know  she  despises  me — that  she  loathes 
me.  But  I  can't  help  it,  Grant — and  I  came  to  you  to  kind 
of  help  me  with  Violet.  It  wouldn't  be  right  to — well,  to 
let  this  thing  go  on."  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  then  he 
added  as  he  fumbled  with  the  red  tablecloth,  "What  a  fool 
a  man  is — Lord,  what  a  fool!" 

In  the  end,  Grant  had  to  agree  to  let  Violet  know,  by  some 
round  about  procedure  devised  by  Mr.  Fenn's  legal  mind, 
that  he  was  not  a  marriageable  person.  At  the  same  time, 
Grant  had  to  agree  not  to  frighten  away  the  Hogan  children. 

The  next  morning  as  Grant  and  his  father  rode  from 
their  home  into  town,  Grant  told  his  father  of  the  invitation 
to  the  Captain's  party. 

"If  your  mother  could  have  lived  just  to  see  the  Captain 
on  his  grand  plutocratic  spree,  Grant — "  said  his  father. 
He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  cracked  the  lines  on  the 
old  mare 's  back  and  looked  at  the  sky.  He  turned  his  white 
beard  and  gentle  eyes  upon  his  son  and  said,  "There  was  a 
time  last  night,  before  you  came  in,  when  I  thought  I  had 
her.  Some  one  was  greatly  interested  in  you  and  some  new 
project  you  have  in  mind.  Emerson  thinks  well  of  it,"  said 
Amos,  "though,"  he  added,  "Emerson  thinks  it  won't 
amount  to  much — in  practical  immediate  results.  But  I 
think,  Grant,  now  of  course,  I  can't  be  sure,"  the  father 
rubbed  his  jaw  and  shook  a  meditative  head,  "it  certainly  did 
seem  to  me  mother  was  there  for  a  time.  Something  kept 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     491 

bothering  Emerson — calling  Grantie — the  way  she  used  to 
— all  the  time  he  was  talking ! ' ' 

The  father  let  Grant  out  of  the  buggy  at  the  Vanderbilt 
House  in  South  Harvey,  and  the  old  mare  and  her  driver 
jogged  up  town  to  the  Tribune  office.  There  he  creaked  out 
of  the  buggy  and  went  to  his  work.  It  was  nine  o'clock 
before  the  Captain  came  capering  in,  and  the  two  old  codgers 
in  their  seventies  went  into  the  plot  of  the  surprise  party  with 
the  enthusiam  of  boys. 

After  the  Captain  had  explained  the  purpose  of  the  sur 
prise,  Amos  Adams  sat  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  and 
smiled.  "Well — well,  Ezry — I  didn't  realize  it.  Time  cer 
tainly  does  fly.  And  it's  all  right/'  he  added,  "I'm  glad 
you're  going  to  do  it.  She  certainly  will  approve  it.  And 
the  girls — "  the  old  man  chuckled,  "you  surely  will  settle 
them  for  good  and  all." 

He  laughed  a  little  treble  laugh,  cracked  and  yet  gleeful. 
"Nice  girls — all  of  'em.  But  Grant  says  Jap's  a  kind  of 
shining  around  your  Ruth — that's  the  singing  one,  isn't  it? 
Well,  I  suppose,  P]zry,  either  of  'em  might  do  worse.  Of 
course,  this  singing  one  doesn't  remember  her  mother  much, 
so  I  suppose  she  won 't  be  much  affected  by  your  surprise  ? ' ' 
He  asked  a  question,  but  after  his  manner  went  on,  "Well, 
maybe  it  was  Jap  and  Ruth  that  was  bothering  Mary  last 
night.  I  kind  of  thought  someway,  for  the  first  time  maybe 
I'd  get  her.  But  nothing  much  came  of  it,"  he  said  sadly. 
"It's  funny  about  the  way  I've  never  been  able  to  get  her 
direct,  when  every  one  else  comes — isn't  it?" 

The  Captain  was  in  no  humor  for  occult  things,  so  he  cut 
in  with :  ' '  Now  listen  here,  Amos — what  do  you  think  of  me 
asking  Mrs.  Herdicker  to  sit  at  one  end  of  the  table,  eh? 
Of  course  I  know  what  the  girls  will  think — but  then,"  he 
winked  with  immense  slyness,  "that's  all  right.  I  was  talk 
ing  to  her  about  it,  and  she's  going  to  have  a  brand  new 
dress — somepin  swell — eh?  By  the  jumping  John  Rogers, 
Amos — there's  a  woman — eh?" 

And  tightening  up  his  necktie — a  scarlet  creation  of  much 
pride — he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  as  one  who  has  great 
affairs  under  it,  and  marched  double-quick  out  of  the  office. 

You  may  be  sure  that  some  kind  friend  told  the  Morton 


492  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

girls  of  what  was  in  store  for  them,  the  kind  friend  being 
Mr.  George  Brotherton,  who  being  thoroughly  married,  re 
garded  any  secret  from  his  wife  in  the  light  of  a  real  in 
fidelity.  So  he  told  her  all  that  he  and  Market  Street  knew. 
Now  the  news  of  the  party — a  party  in  whose  preparations 
they  were  to  have  no  share,  roused  in  the  Misses  Morton, 
and  their  married  sister,  jointly  and  severally,  that  devil 
of  suspicion  which  always  tormented  their  dreams. 

"And,  Emma,"  gasped  Martha,  when  Emma  came  over 
for  her  daily  visit,  "just  listen!  Mrs.  Herdicker  is  having 
the  grandest  dress  made  for  the  party!  She  told  the  girls 
in  the  store  she  had  twenty-seven  dollars'  worth  of  jet  on  it 
— just  jet  alone."  Here  the  handsome  Miss  Morton 
turned  pale  with  the  gravity  of  the  news.  "She  told  the 
girls  to-day,  this  very  afternoon,  that  she  was  going  to  take 
the  three  o'clock  morning  train  right  after  the  party  for  New 
York  to  do  her  fall  buying.  Fall  buying,  indeed!  Fall 
buying,"  the  handsome  Miss  Morton's  voice  thickened  and 
she  cried,  "just  because  papa's  got  a  little  money,  she 
thinks—" 

But  what  she  thought  Miss  Morton  never  said,  for  Mrs. 
Brotherton,  still  familiar  with  the  gossip  of  the  schoolhouse, 
cut  in  to  say:  "And,  Martha,  what  do  you  think  those 
Copini  children  say?  They  say  father's  got  their  father's 
orchestra  to  practice  all  the  old  sentimental  music  you  ever 
heard  of — 'Silver  Threads  Among  the  Gold,'  and  'Do  You 
Love  Me,  Molly  Darling, '  and  '  Lorena, '  and  '  Robin  Adair, ' — 
and  oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Brotherton,  shaking  a  hopeless  head, 
"I  don't  know  what  other  silly  things." 

"And  yes,  girls,"  exclaimed  the  youngest  Miss  Morton 
flippantly,  "he's  sent  around  to  the  Music  School  for  Miss 
Howe  to  come  and  sing  '  0  Promise  Me ' ! " 

"The  idea!"  cried  the  new  Mrs.  Brotherton. 

"Why,  the  very  idea!"  broke  out  the  handsome  Miss 
Ivlorton,  sitting  by  the  dining-room  table. 

"The  idea!"  echoed  the  youngest  Miss  Morton,  putting 
away  her  music  roll,  and  adding  in  gasping  excitement: 
"And  that  isn't  the  worst.  He  sent  word  for  her  to  sing 
it  just  after  the  band  had  finished  playing  the  wedding 
march!" 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     493 

Now  terror  came  into  the  house  of  Morton,  and  when  the 
tailor's  boy  brought  home  a  package,  the  daughters  tore  it 
open  ruthlessly,  and  discovered — as  they  sat  limply  with  it 
spread  out  in  its  pristine  beauty  on  the  sofa  before  them — 
a  white  broadcloth  dinner  suit — with  a  watered  silk  vest. 
Half  an  hour  later,  when  a  pleated  dress  shirt  with  pearl 
buttons  came,  it  found  three  daughters  sitting  with  tight  lips 
waiting  for  their  father — and  six  tigers'  eyes  glaring  hun 
grily  at  the  door  through  which  he  was  expected.  At  six 
o'clock,  when  they  heard  his  nimble  step  on  the  porch,  they 
looked  at  one  another  in  fear,  and  as  he  burst  into  the  room, 
each  looked  decisively  at  the  other  as  indicating  a  command 
to  begin. 

He  came  in  enveloping  them  in  one  all-encompassing  hug 
and  cried : 

"Well  'y  gory,  girls,  you  certainly  are  the  three  graces, 
the  three  fates,  and  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil  all  in 
one — what  say?" 

But  the  Morton  daughters  were  not  to  be  silenced.  Ruth 
took  in  a  deep  breath  and  began : 

"Well,  now  see  here,  father,  do  you  know  what  people 
are  saying  about — ' ' 

"Of  course — I  was  just  coming  to  that,  Ruthie,"  an 
swered  the  Captain.  "Amos  Aclains  he  says,  'Well,  Cap,' 
say  he,  '  I  was  talking  to  Cleopatra  and  she  says  Queen  Vic 
toria  had  a  readin'  to  the  effect  that  there  was  a  boy  named 
Amos  Ezra  Morton  Adams  over  on  one  of  the  stars  in  the 
southwest  corner  of  the  milky  way  that  would  be  busting  into 
this  part  of  the  universe  in  about  three  years,  more  or  less' — 
what  say?" 

The  old  man  laughed  and  Ruth  flushed  red,  and  ran 
away.  The  Captain  saw  his  suit  lying  on  the  sofa. 

"Somepin  new — "  interjected  the  Captain.  "Thought 
I'd  kind  o'  bloom  out;  sort  o'  to  let  folks  know  that  the 
old  man  had  a  little  kick  in  him  yet — eh  ?  And  now,  girls — 
listen;  let's  all  go  out  to  the  Country  Club  for  dinner  to 
night,  and  I'll  put  on  my  new  suit  and  you  kind  of  rig  up 
in  your  best,  and  we'll  make  what  George  calls  a  killing — 
what  say?"  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  looked 
critically  at  his  new  clothes.  The  flight  of  Ruth  had  quieted 


494  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Emma,  but  Martha  came  swooping  down  on  him  with  "Now, 
father — look  here — about  that  Country  Club  party — 

The  Captain  shot  a  swift  glance  at  Martha,  and  saw  Emma 
looking  at  him  from  the  kitchen  door. 

' '  What  party  ? "  he  exclaimed.  *  *  Can 't  I  ask  my  girls  out 
for  a  little  innocent  dinner  without  its  being  called  a  party — 
eh?  Now,  you  girls  get  your  things  on  and  come  on.  As 
for  me,  the  limousine  will  be  at  the  door  at  eight ! ' ' 

He  disappeared  up  the  stairs  and  in  the  Morton  house 
hold,  two  young  women,  woeful  and  heavy  hearted,  went 
about  their  toilets,  while  in  the  Brotherton  establishment, 
one  large  fat  man  in  suspenders  felt  the  rush  of  sudden  tears 
on  his  shirt  front  and  marveled  at  the  ways  of  the  sex. 
When  the  Mortons  were  in  the  midst  of  their  moist  and  lu 
gubrious  task,  the  thin,  cracked  little  voice  of  the  Captain 
called  out: 

11  Girls — before  you  go,  don't  forget  to  put  that  cold  beef 
on  and  stew  it  to-night  for  hash  in  the  morning — eh  ?" 

It  was  a  beautiful  party  that  Captain  Morton  gave  at  the 
Country  Club  house  that  evening.  And  at  the  end  of  a  most 
gorgeously  elaborate  dinner,  wherein  were  dishes  whose  very 
names  the  Captain  did  not  know,  he  rose  among  his  guests 
seated  at  the  U-shaped  table  in  the  big  dining  room  with 
the  heavy  brown  beams  in  the  ceiling,  a  little  old  man  by 
his  big  chair,  which  stood  beside  a  chair  unoccupied. 

''Friends,"  he  said,  "when  a  man  gets  on  in  his  seven 
ties,  at  that  uncertain  time,  when  he  does  not  know  whether 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  years  or  proud  of  his  age,"  he  smiled 
at  Daniel  Sands,  who  clicked  his  false-teeth  in  appreciation 
of  the  phrase,  "it  would  seem  that  thoughts  of  what  the 
poet  calls  'the  livelier  iris'  on  the  'burnished  dove'  would  not 
inconvenience  him  to  any  great  extent — eh  ?  At  seventy-five 
a  young  fellow's  fancy  ought  to  be  pretty  well  done  lightly 
turning  to  thoughts  of  love — what  say?  But  by  cracky — 
they  don't." 

He  paused.  The  Morton  girls  in  shame  looked  at  their 
plates.  "So,  I  just  thought  I'd  have  this  little  party  to  tell 
you  about  it.  I  wanted  to  surprise  the  girls."  There  was 
only  a  faint  clapping  of  hands ;  for  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the 
three  Morton  daughters  discouraged  merriment. 


THE  LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  COMPANY     495 

"A  man,  as  I  was  saying,  never  gets  too  old — never  gets 
too  crabbed,  for  what  my  friend  Amos's  friend  Emerson  calls 
'a  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood' — eh?  So,  when  that  *  ruddy 
drop  of  manly  blood'  comes  a  surging  up  in  me,  I  says  I'll 
just  about  have  a  party  for  that  drop  of  manly  blood!  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  There's  a  woman  in  my  mind 
— a  very  beautiful  woman;  for  years — a  feller  just  as  well 
breakdown  and  confess — eh? — well  for  years  she's  been  in 
my  mind  pretty  much  all  the  time — particularly  since  Euthie 
there  was  a  baby  and  left  alorn  and  alone — as  you  may  say 
— eh?  And  so,"  he  reached  down  and  grasped  a  goblet  of 
water  firmly,  and  held  it  before  him,  ' '  and  so, ' '  he  repeated, 
and  his  old  eyes  glistened  and  his  voice  broke,  "as  it  was 
just  fifty  years  ago  to-night  that  heaven  opened  and  let  her 
come  to  me,  before  I  marched  off  to  war — so,"  he  hur 
ried  along,  "I  give  you  this  toast — the  vacant  chair — may  it 
always,  always,  always  be  filled  in  my  heart  of  hearts ! ' ' 

He  could  not  drink,  but  sank  with  his  head  on  his  arms, 
and  when  they  had  ceased  clapping  their  hands,  the  old  man 
looked  up,  signaled  to  the  orchestra,  and  cried  in  a  tight, 
cracked  voice,  "Now,  dern  ye — begin  yer  fiddlin'!" 

Whereupon  the  three  Morton  daughters  wept  and  the  old 
ladies  gathered  about  them  and  wept,  and  Mrs.  Hilda  Her- 
dicker's  ton  of  jet  heaved  as  in  a  tidal  wave,  and  the  old  men 
dried  their  eyes,  and  only  Lila  Van  Dorn  and  Kenyon  Adams, 
holding  hands  under  the  table,  really  knew  what  it  was  all 
about. 

Now  they  have  capered  through  these  pages  of  this  chapter 
— all  of  the  people  in  this  story  in  their  love  affairs.  Hand 
in  hand,  they  have  come  to  the  footlights,  hand  in  hand  they 
have  walked  before  us.  We  have  seen  that  love  is  a  passion 
with  many  sides.  It  varies  with  each  soul.  In  youth,  in 
maturity,  in  courtship,  in  marriage,  in  widowhood,  in  inno 
cence,  and  in  the  wisdom  of  serpents,  love  reflects  the  soul 
it  shines  on.  For  love  is  youth  in  the  heart — youth  that 
always  beckons,  that  always  shapes  our  visions.  Love  ever 
sheens  and  shimmers  brightly  from  within  us;  but  what 
it  shows  to  the  world — that  is  vastly  different  with  each  of 
us.  For  that  is  the  shadow  of  his  inmost  being. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

WHEREIN    WE    FIND    GRANT    ADAMS    CALLING    UPON    KENYON'S 
MOTHER,   AND  DARKNESS   FALLS  UPON   TWO   LOVERS 

ONCE  in  a  while  an  item  appeared  in  the  Harvey 
Tribune  that  might  have  been  found  nowhere  else, 
and  for  reasons.     For  instance,  the  issue  of  the  Trib 
une  that  contained  the  account  of  the  Captain's  party  also 
contained  this  item,  which  Daniel  Sands  had  kept  out  of 
every  other  paper  in  town : 

"Mortimer  Sands,  son  of  D.  Sands  of  the  Traders'  Bank,  has  re 
turned  from  Arizona,  where  he  has  been  seeking  health.  He  is  hopeful 
of  ultimate  recovery." 

Another  item  of  interest  appeared  in  the  same  issue  of  the 
paper.  It  related  that  T.  Van  Dorn,  former  Judge  of  the 
District  Court,  is  in  Washington,  D.  C.,  on  legal  business. 

The  Adams  family  item,  which  the  paper  never  failed  to 
contain,  was  this : 

"K.  Adams  will  leave  next  week  for  New  York,  where  his  new  opera, 
'Rachel,'  will  have  its  first  appearance  next  autumn.  He  will  be 
missed  in  our  midst." 

And  for  a  paper  with  no  subscribers  and  no  patronage,  it 
is  curious  to  note  that  the  Tribune  carried  the  news  above 
mentioned  to  all  of  Harvey,  and  all  of  Harvey  discussed  the 
news.  Not  that  the  town  did  not  know  more  or  less  of  the 
facts  as  herein  above  related ;  but  when  a  fact  is  read  in  print 
it  becomes  something  different  from  a  fact.  It  becomes  a 
public  matter,  an.  episode  in  the  history  of  the  world. 

In  the  same  issue  of  the  paper  was  a  statement  from  Grant 
Adams  that  he  had  decided  to  throw  his  life  with  the  Social- 

496 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   497 

ists  and  with  that  group  known  as  the  revolutionary  So 
cialists.  Grant  was  enough  of  a  personage,  and  the  declara 
tion  was  short  enough  and  interesting  enough,  to  give  it  a 
place  in  the  newspapers  of  the  country  for  a  day.  In  the 
State  where  he  lived,  the  statement  created  some  comment — 
mostly  adverse  to  Dr.  Nesbit,  whose  political  association  with 
Grant  Adams  had  linked  the  Doctor's  name  with  Grant's. 
Being  out  of  power,  Dr.  Nesbit  felt  these  flings.  So  it  hap 
pened  that  when,  the  Sunday  following  the  announcement, 
Grant  came  with  his  father  and  Kenyon  in  the  rattling  old 
buggy  up  to  the  Nesbit  home  on  Elm  Street,  Amos  Adams 
found  a  rollicking,  frivolous,  mischievous  host — but  Grant 
Adams  found  a  natty,  testy,  sardonic  old  man,  who  made  no 
secret  of  his  ill-humor. 

Kenyon  found  Lila,  and  the  two  with  their  music  indoors 
made  a  background  for  the  talk  on  the  veranda.  Nathan 
Perry,  who  came  up  for  a  pill  or  a  powder  for  one  of  his 
nock,  sat  for  a  time  on  the  veranda  steps.  For  all  his  f riv- 
oling  with  the  elder  Adams,  Nathan  could  see  by  the  way  the 
loose,  wrinkled  skin  on  the  Doctor's  face  kept  twitching  when 
Grant  spoke,  that  the  old  man  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"Grant,"  cried  the  Doctor,  in  his  excited  treble,  "do 
you  realize  what  an  ornate,  unnecessary,  unmitigated  con 
spicuous,  and  elaborate  jack  you've  made  of  yourself?  Do 
you — young  man  ?  Well,  you  have.  Your  revolution — your 
revolution!"  shrilled  the  old  man.  "Damn  sight  of  revolu 
tion  you'll  kick  up  charging  over  the  country  with  your 
water-tank  patriots — your — your  box-ear  statesmen — now, 
won't  you?" 

' '  Here — Doctor, — come — be — ' ' 

But  the  Doctor  would  not  let  Grant  talk.  The  chirrup  of 
the  shrill  old  voice  bore  in  upon  the  younger  man's  protest 
with,  "Now,  you  let  me  say  my  say.  The  world's  moving 
along — moving  pretty  fast  and  generally  to  one  end,  and 
that  end  is  to  put  food  in  the  bellies,  clothes  on  the  back, 
and  brains  in  the  head  of  the  working  man.  The  whole  trend 
of  legislation  all  over  the  world  has  gone  that  way.  Hell's 
afire,  Grant — what  more  do  you  want?  We've  given  you  the 
inheritance  tax  and  the  income  tax  and  direct  legislation  to 
manipulate  it,  and,  by  Ned,  instead  of  staying  with  the  game 


498  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  helping  us  work  these  things  out  in  wise  administration, 
you  fly  the  coop,  and  go  squawking  over  the  country  with 
your  revolution  and  leave  me — damn  it,  Grant,"  piped  the 
little,  high  voice,  sputtering  with  rage,  "you  leave  me — with 
my  linen  pants  on  a  clothes-line  four  miles  from  home!" 

Then  slowly  the  little  lines  began  to  break  in  his  loose  skin. 
A  faint  smile,  then  a  grin  and  then  a  laugh,  spread  over  the 
old  face,  and  he  wiped  his  watering  eyes  as  he  shook  his 
head  mournfully. 

Grant  was  gathering  himself  to  reply  when  Nate  Perry 
rasped  in  with  his  high-keyed  Yankee  voice :  "I  guess  that 
about  covers  my  views,  Grant — if  any  one  should  ask  you." 

The  crusader  rose  in  Grant:  "It's  you  men  who  have  no 
sense,"  he  cried.  "You  think  because  I  declare  war  on  the 
profit  system  that  I  propose  to  sail  out  and  overturn  it  with 
a  few  bombs  over  night.  Look  here,  men ;  what  I  propose  to 
do  is  to  demonstrate  right  here  in  the  Wahoo  Valley,  where 
there  are  all  sorts  of  laboring  people,  skilled,  unskilled,  con 
tinuous,  overpaid  and  underpaid,  foreign  and  American — - 
utterly  unlike,  incoherent,  racially  and  industrially — that 
they  have  in  them  capacities  for  organizing ;  unused  abilities, 
untried  talents  that  will  make  them  worthy  to  take  a  higher 
place  in  the  economic  scale  than  they  now  have.  If  I  can 
amalgamate  them,  if  I  can  weld  them  into  a  consistent,  coher 
ent  labor  mass — the  Irish,  the  Slav,  the  Jews,  the  Italians, 
the  Poles,  the  French,  the  Dutch,  the  Letts,  and  the  Mexi 
cans — put  to  some  purpose  the  love  of  the  poor  for  the  poor, 
so  that  it  will  count  industrially,  you  can't  stop  the  revolu 
tion."  He  was  wagging  his  head,  waving  his  stump  of  an 
arm  and  his  face  showed  the  temperamental  excitement  that 
was  in  him. 

"Go  ahead,  Grant,"  said  Perry.  "Play  out  all  your  line 
— show  us  your  game." 

"Well,  then — here's  my  game.  For  five  years  we've  been 
collecting  a  district  strike  fund — all  our  own,  that  doesn't 
belong  to  any  other  organization  or  federation  anywhere. 
It's  ours  here  in  the  Wahoo.  It's  independent  of  any  state 
or  national  control.  I've  collected  it.  It's  been  paid  be 
cause  these  men  here  in  the  Valley  have  faith  in  me.  We 
have  practically  never  spent  a  penny  of  it.  There  are  about 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   499 

ten  thousand  workers  in  the  Valley — some,  like  the  glass- 
blowers,  are  the  aristocracy  of  labor ;  others,  like  the  breaker 
boys,  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  scale.  But  we've  kept  wages 
up,  kept  conditions  as  high  as  they  are  anywhere  in  the 
country — and  we  've  done  it  without  strikes.  They  have  faith 
in  me.  So  we've  assessed  them  according  to  their  wages, 
and  we  have  on  hand,  with  assessments  and  interest,  over  a 
third  of  a  million  dollars. ' ' 

He  looked  at  Perry,  and  nodded  his  head  at  the  Doctor. 
"You  fellows  think  I'm  a  cream-puff  reformer.  I'm  not. 
Now,  then — I  've  talked  it  over  with  our  board — we  are  going 
to  invest  that  money  in  land  up  and  down  the  Valley — put 
the  women  and  children  and  old  men  on  it — in  tents — during 
the  growing  season,  and  cultivate  that  land  in  three-acre 
tracts  intensively.  Our  Belgian  glassblowers  and  smelter 
men  have  sent  for  their  gardeners  to  teach  us.  Now  it's 
merely  a  question  of  getting  the  land  and  doing  the  prelimi 
nary  organization.  We  want  to  get  as  much  land  as  we  can. 
Now,  there's  my  game.  With  that  kind  of  a  layout  we  can 
win  any  strike  we  call.  And  we  can  prove  to  the  world  that 
labor  has  the  cohesive  cooperating  faculty  required  to  man 
age  the  factories — to  take  a  larger  share  of  the  income  of 
industry,  if  you  please.  That's  my  revolution,  gentlemen. 
And  it's  going  to  begin  right  here  in  the  Wahoo  Valley." 

"Well,"  returned  Nate  Perry,  "your  revolution  looks  in 
teresting.  It 's  got  some  new  gears,  at  least. ' ' 

"Go  it  while  you're  young,"  piped  the  Doctor.  "In  just 
about  eighteen  months,  you  will  be  coming  to  me  to  go  on 
your  bond — to  keep  out  of  jail.  I've  seen  new-fangled  revo 
lutions  peter  out  before." 

' '  Just  the  same, ' '  replied  Grant,  "  I  've  pinnea  my  faith  to 
these  men  and  women.  They  are  now  working  in  fear  of 
poverty.  Give  them  hope  of  better  things  instead  of  fear 
and  they  will  develop  out  of  poverty,  just  as  the  middle  class 
came  out  under  the  same  stimulus. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  interrupted  Perry, 
"but  I  do  know  that  I  could  take  that  money  and  put  three 
thousand  families  to  work  on  the  land  in  the  Wahoo  Valley 
and  develop  the  best  labor  in  the  country." 

He  laughed,  and  Grant  gazed,  almost  flared,  so  eager  was 


500  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

his  look,  at  Perry  for  a  moment,  and  said:  "When  the  day 
of  the  democracy  of  labor  comes — and  it  will  come  and  come 
soon — men  like  you  will  take  leadership." 

There  was  more  high  talk,  and  Nathan  Perry  went  home 
with  his  pill. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  music  from  indoors  came  to  the 
three  men.  "That's  from  his  new  opera,  father,"  said 
Grant,  as  his  attention  was  attracted  to  the  violin  and  piano. 

' '  Good  Lord, ' '  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  "  I  've  heard  so  much 
of  that  opera  that  I  caught  myself  prescribing  a  bar  from 
the  opening  chorus  for  the  grip  the  other  day!" 

The  two  elder  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  the  Doctor 
said,  "Well,  Amos — that's  mostly  wrhy  I  asked  you  to  come 
up  to-day.  It  wasn't  for  the  society  of  your  amateur  revo 
lutionist — you  may  be  sure  of  that. ' ' 

The  Doctor  tempered  his  words  with  a  smile,  but  they  had 
pricks,  and  Grant  winced.  "I  suppose  we  may  as  well  con 
sider  Lila  and  Kenyon  as  before  the  house?" 

"Keiiyori  came  to  me  last  night,"  said  Grant,  "wanting 
to  know  whether  he  should  come  to  father  first,  or  go  to  Dr. 
Nesbit,  or — well,  he  wondered  if  it  would  be  necessary  to 
talk  with  Lila's  own  father."  All  the  grimness  in  Grant's 
countenance  melted  as  he  spoke  of  Kenyon  and  the  battered 
features  softened. 

"And  that  is  what  I  wish  to  talk  about,  Grant,"  said  the 
Doctor  gently.  "They  don't  know  who  Kenyon  is- — I  mean, 
they  don't  know  about  his  parentage."  Grant  looked  at 
the  floor.  Slowly  as  the  old  shame  revived  in  him,  its  flush 
rose  from  his  neck  to  his  face  and  met  his  tousled  hair.  The 
two  old  men  looked  seriously  at  one  another.  The  Doctor 
emphasized  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  by  lighting  a  pipe. 

"I  don't  know — I  really  don't  know  what  is  right  here," 
he  said  finally.  "Is  it  fair  to  Laura  to  let  her  daughter 
marry  the  son  of  a  woman  who,  more  than  any  other  woman 
in  the  world,  has  wronged  her?  I'm  sure  Laura  cherishes 
no  malice  toward  Kenyon 's  mother.  Yet,  of  course,"  the 
Doctor  spoke  deliberately  and  puffed  between  his  words, 
"blood  is  blood.  But  I  don't  know  how  much  blood  is  blood, 
I  mean  how  much  of  what  we  call  heredity  in  human  beings 
is  due  to  actual  blood  transmission  of  traits,  and  how  much 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   501 

is  due  to  the  development  of  traits  by  family  environment. 
I'm  not  sure,  Amos,  that  this  boy's  bad  blood  has  not  been 
entirely  eliminated  by  the  kindly,  beautiful  family  environ 
ment  he  has  had  with  you  and  yours.  There  seems  to  be 
nothing  of  the  Miillers  in  him,  but  his  face  and  his  music — 
I  take  it  his  music  is  of  German  origin." 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know,  Doctor,"  answered  Amos. 
"I've  tried  to  take  him  apart,  and  put  him  together  again, 
but  I  can't  find  where  the  parts  belong." 

And  so  they  droned  on,  those  three  wiseacres — two  oldish 
gentlemen  and  a  middle-aged  man,  thinking  they  could 
change  or  check  or  dam  the  course  of  true  love.  While 
inside  at  the  piano  on  the  tide  of  music  that  was  washing  in 
from  God  only  knows  what  bourne  where  words  are  useless 
and  passions  speak  the  primitive  language  of  souls,  Lila  and 
Kenyon  were  solving  all  the  problems  set  for  them  by  their 
elders  and  betters.  For  they  lived  in  another  world  from 
those  who  established  themselves  in  the  Providence  business 
out  on  the  veranda.  And  on  this  earth,  even  in  the  same 
houses,  and  in  the  same  families,  there  is  no  communication 
between  the  worlds.  With  our  powerful  lenses  of  memory 
we  men  and  women  in  our  forties  gaze  earnestly  and  long  at 
the  distant  planets  of  youth,  wondering  if  they  are  really  in 
habited  by  real  people — or  mere  animals,  perchance — if  they 
have  human  institutions,  reasonable  aspirations  or  finite 
intelligences.  We  take  temperatures,  make  blood  counts  and 
record  blood  pressure,  reckon  the  heart-beats,  and  think  we 
are  wondrous  wise.  But  wig-wag  as  we  may,  signal  with 
what  mysterious  wireless  of  evanescent  youth-fire  we  still 
hold  in  our  blood,  we  get  nothing  but  vague  hints,  broken 
reminiscences,  and  a  certain  patchwork  of  our  own  subcon 
scious  chop  logic  of  middle  age  in  return.  There  is  no  real 
communication  between  the  worlds.  Youth  remains  another 
planet — even  as  age  and  childhood  are  other  planets. 

Now,  after  the  three  wise  men  had  considered  the  star 
glowing  before  them,  they  decided  thus : 

"Well,"  quoth  the  Doctor,  "it  seems  absolutely  just  that 
Lila  should  know  who  her  husband  is,  and  that  Laura  should 
know  whom  her  child  is  marrying.  So  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned,  I  know  this  Adams  blood;  I'll  trust  it  to  breed  out 


502  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

any  taint;  but  I  have  no  right  to  decide  for  Lila;  I  have 
no  right  to  say  what  Laura  will  do — though,  Grant,  I  know 
in  my  heart  that  she  would  rather  have  her  child  marry 
yours  than  to  have  anything  else  come  about  that  the  world 
could  hold  for  her.  And  yet — she  should  know  the  truth." 

Grant  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  and  his  eyes  on  the  floor, 
while  the  Doctor  spoke.  Without  looking  up,  he  said: 
" There's  some  one  else  to  consider,  Doctor — there's  Mar 
garet — after  all,  it's  her  son;  it's  her  secret.  It's — I  don't 
know  what  her  rights  are — perhaps  she's  forfeited  them. 
But  she  is  at  least  physically  his  mother." 

The  Doctor  looked  up  with  a  troubled  face.  He  ran  his 
hand  over  the  place  where  his  pompadour  once  used  to  rise, 
and  where  only  a  fuzz  responded  to  the  stroke  of  his  dry 
palm,  and  answered : 

"Grant — through  it  all — through  all  the  tragedy  that  she 
has  brought  here,  I've  kept  that  secret  for  Margaret.  And 
until  she  releases  me,  I  can  never  break  my  silence.  A 
doctor — one  of  the  right  sort — never  could.  Whatever  you 
feel  are  her  rights — you  and  she  must  settle.  It  must  be 
you,  not  I,  to  tell  this  story,  even  to  my  own  flesh  and 
blood,  Grant." 

Grant  rose  and  walked  the  long,  straight  stretch  of  the 
veranda.  His  shoulders,  pugnacious,  aggressive,  and  defiant, 
swayed  as  he  walked  heavily  and  he  gazed  at  the  floor  as  one 
in  shame.  Finally  he  whirled  toward  the  Doctor  and  said: 

"  I  'm  going  to  his  mother.  I  'm  going  now.  She  may  have 
mighty  few  rights  in  this  matter — she  cast  him  off  shame 
fully.  But  she  has  just  one  right  here — the  right  to  know 
that  I  shall  tell  her  secret  to  Laura,  and  I'm  going  to  talk 
to  her  before  I  tell  Laura.  Even  if  Margaret  clamors  against 
what  I  think  is  right,  I  shall  not  stop.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  sneak  her  secret  away  without  her  knowing  it.  I  suppose 
that's  about  the  extent  of  her  rights  in  Kenyon:  to  know 
before  I  tell  his  wife  who  he  really  is,  so  that  Margaret  will 
know  who  knows  and  who  does  not  know  her  relation  to 
him.  It  seems  to  me  that  is  about  the  justice  of  the  case." 
The  Doctor  puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  nodded  a  slow  assent. 

4  *  Now 's  as  good  a  time  as  any, ' '  answered  the  Doctor,  and 
added :  ' '  By  the  way,  Amos — I  had  a  telegram  from  Wash- 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   503 

ington  this  morning,  saying  that  Tom  is  to  be  made  Federal 
judge  in  the  new  district.  That's  what  he's  doing  in  Wash 
ington  just  now.  He  is  one  of  those  ostensible  fellows," 
piped  the  Doctor.  "Ostensibly  he's  there  trying  to  help 
land  another  man;  but  Tom's  the  Van  Dorn  candidate." 

He  smoked  until  his  pipe  revived  and  added,  "Well,  Tom 
can  afford  it ;  he 's  got  all  the  money  he  needs. ' ' 

Grant,  who  heard  the  Doctor's  news,  did  not  seem  to  be 
disturbed  by  it.  His  mind  was  occupied  with  more  personal 
matters.  He  stood  by  a  pillar,  looking  off  into  the  summer 
day. 

"Well,  I  suppose,"  he  looked  at  his  clothes,  brushed  the 
dust  from  the  top  of  his  shoes  by  rubbing  them  separately 
against  the  calves  of  his  legs,  straightened  his  ready-made 
tie  and  felt  of  the  buttons  on  his  vest,  "I  suppose,"  he  re 
peated,  "I  may  just  as  well  go  now  as  at  any  other  time," 
and  he  strode  down  the  steps  and  made  straight  for  the  Van 
Dorn  home. 

When  he  came  to  the  Van  Dorn  house  he  saw  Margaret 
sitting  alone  in  the  deep  shade  of  a  vine-screened  piazza. 
She  wore  a  loose  flowing  purple  house  garment,  of  a  bizarre 
pattern  which  accented  her  physical  charms.  But  not  until 
he  had  begun  to  mount  the  steps  before  her  did  he  notice 
that  she  was  sound  asleep  in  a  gaping  and  disenchanting 
stupor.  Yet  his  footstep  aroused  her,  and  she  started  and 
gazed  wildly  at  him:  "Why — why — you — why,  Grant!" 

"Yes,  Margaret,"  he  answered  as  he  stood  hat  in  hand 
on  the  top  step  before  her,  ignoring  her  trembling  and  the 
terror  in  her  eyes.  "I've  come  to  have  a  talk  with  you — 
about  Kenyon." 

She  looked  about  her,  listened  a  second,  shuddered,  and 
said  with  quivering  facial  muscles  and  shaky  voice,  "Yes — 
oh,  yes — about  Kenyon — yes — Kenyon  Adams.  Yes,  I 
know." 

The  eyes  she  turned  on  him  were  dull  and  her  face  was 
slumped,  as  though  the  soul  had  gone  from  it.  A  tremor  was 
visible  in  her  hands,  and  the  color  was  gone  from  her  droop 
ing  lips.  She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  stupidly,  then 
irritation  came  into  her  voice,  as  he  sat  unbidden  in  a  porch 
chair  near  her.  ' '  I  didn  't  tell  you  to  sit  down. ' ' 


504  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

1  'No."  He  turned  his  face  and  caught  her  eyes.  "But 
I'll  be  comfortable  sitting  down,  and  we've  got  more  or  less 
talking  to  do." 

He  could  see  that  she  was  perturbed,  and  fear  wrote  itself 
all  over  her  face.  But  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  vainly 
trying  to  get  control  of  herself.  The  power  of  the  little 
brown  pellets  left  her  while  she  slept,  and  she  was  uncertain 
of  herself  and  timid.  "I — I'm  sick — well — I — I — why,  I 
can't  talk  to  you  now.  Go  'way,"  she  cried.  "Go  'way, 
won't  you,  please — please  go  'way,  and  come  some  other 
time." 

«No — now's  as  good  a  time  as  any,"  he  replied.  "At 
any  rate,  I'll  tell  you  what's  on  my  mind.  Mag,  now  pay 
attention."  He  turned  his  face  to  her.  "The  time  has 
come  when  Lila  Van  Dorn  and  her  mother  must  know  who 
Kenyon  is." 

She  looked  vacantly  at  him,  then  started  and  chattered, 
"Wh-wh-wh-wha-what  are  you  s-s-sas-saying — do  you 
mean?" 

She  got  up,  closed  the  door  into  the  house,  and  came  tot 
tering  back  and  stood  by  her  chair,  as  the  man  answered : 

"I  mean,  Maggie,  exactly  what  I  said.  Kenyon  wants  to 
marry  Lila.  But  I  think,  and  Doctor  Nesbit  thinks,  that 
before  it  is  settled,  Lila  and  her  mother,  and  you  might  as 
well  include  Mrs.  Nesbit,  must  know  just  who  their  daughter 
is  marrying — I  mean  what  blood.  Now  do  you  get  my 
idea?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  woman,  clutching  at  her  chair  back,  tried 
to  quiet  her  fluttering  hands.  But  she  began  panting  and  a 
sickly  pallor  overcame  her  and  she  cried  feebly:  "Oh,  you 
devil — you  devil — will  you  never  let  me  alone?" 

He  answered,  "Look  here,  Mag — what's  the  matter  with 
you?  I'm  only  trying  to  play  fair  with  you.  I  wouldn't 
tell  'em  until  you — " 

* '  Ugh  ! ' '  She  shut  her  eyes.  ' '  Grant — wait  a  minute.  I 
must  get  my  medicine.  I'll  be  back."  She  turned  to  go. 
"Oh,  wait  a  minute — I'll  be  back  in  five  minutes — I  promise, 
honest  to  God,  I'll  be  right  back,  Grant."  She  was  at  the 
door.  As  she  fumbled  with  the  screen,  he  nodded  his  assent 
and  smiled  grimly  as  he  said,  "All  right,  Maggie." 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   505 

When  he  was  alone,  he  looked  about  him,  at  the  evidence 
of  the  Van  Dorn  money  in  the  temple  of  Love.  The  outdoor 
room  was  furnished  with  luxuries  he  had  never  seen.  He 
sniffed  as  though  he  smelled  the  money  that  was  evident 
everywhere.  Beside  Margaret's  chair,  where  she  had 
dropped  it  when  she  went  to  sleep,  was  a  book.  It  was  a 
beautifully  bound  copy  of  the  Memoirs  of  some  titled  harlot 
of  the  old  French  court.  He  was  staring  absentmindedly 
at  the  floor  where  the  book  lay  when  she  came  to  the  door. 

She  came  out,  sat  down,  looked  steadily  at  him  and  began 
calmly:  "Now,  what  is  it  you  desire?" 

She  said  "desiah,"  and  Grant  grunted  as  she  went  on: 
"I'm  shuah  no  good  can  come  and  only  hahm,  great  suffer 
ing — and  Heaven  knows  what  wrong,  by  this — miserable 
plan.  What  good  can  it  do?" 

Her  changed  attitude  surprised  him.  "Well,  now,  Mag 
gie,"  he  returned,  "since  you  want  to  talk  it  over  sensibly, 
I'll  tell  you  how  we  feel — at  least  how  I  feel.  The  chief 
business  of  any  proper  marriage  is  children.  This  marriage 
between  Kenyon  and  Lila — if  it  comes — should  bring  forth 
fruit.  I  claim  Lila  has  a  right  to  know  that  he  has  my 
blood  and  yours  in  him  before  she  goes  into  a  life  partner 
ship  with  him." 

"Oh,  Grant,  Grant,"  cried  Margaret  passionately,  "the 
sum  of  your  hair-splitting  is  this :  that  you  bring  shame  upon 
your  child's  mother,  and  then  cant  like  a  Pharisee  about  its 
being  for  a  good  purpose.  That's  the  way  with  you — you — 
you — "  She  could  not  quite  finish  the  sentence. 

She  sat  breathing  fast,  waiting  for  strength  to  come  to 
her  from  the  fortifying  little  pill.  Grant  picked  up  his  hat. 
"Well— I've  told  you.  That's  what  I  came  for." 

She  caught  his  arm  and  cried,  "Sit  down — haven't  I  a 
right  to  be  heard?  Hasn't  a  mother  any  rights — " 

"No,"  cut  in  Grant,  "not  when  she  strangles  her  mother 
hood?" 

"But  how  could  I  take  my  motherhood  without  disgracing 
my  boy  ? ? '  she  asked. 

He  met  her  eyes.  They  were  steady  eyes,  and  were  bright 
ening.  The  man  stared  at  her  and  answered:  "When  I 
brought  him  to  you  after  mother  died,  a  little,  toddling, 


506  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

motherless  boy,  when  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  us  to 
mother  him — and  I  didn't  want  you,  Maggie,  any  more  than 
you  wanted  me,  but  1  thought  his  right  to  a  mother  was 
greater  than  either  of  our  rights  to  our  choice  of  mates — 
then  and  there,  you  made  your  final  choice." 

"What  does  God  mean,"  she  whined,  "by  hounding  me  all 
my  life  for  that  one  mistake!" 

"Maggie — Maggie,"  answered  the  man,  sitting  down  as 
she  sank  into  a  chair,  "it  wasn't  the  one  mistake  that  has 
made  you  unhappy." 

"That's  twaddle,"  she  retorted,  "sheer  twaddle.  Don't 
I  know  how  that  child  has  been  a  cancer  in  my  very  heart — 
burning  and  gnawing  and  making  me  wretched?  Don't  I 
know?" 

"No,  you  don't,  Mag.  If  you  want  the  truth,"  replied 
Grant  bluntly,  "you  looked  upon  the  boy  as  a  curse.  He 
has  threatened  you  every  day  of  your  life.  The  very  love 
you  think  you  have  for  him,  which  I  don't  doubt  for  a 
minute,  Mag,  made  you  do  a  mad,  foolish,  infinitely  cruel, 
spiteful  thing — that  night  at  the  South  Harvey  riot.  Per 
haps  you  might  care  for  Kenyon's  affection  now,  but  you 
can't  have  that  even  remotely.  For  all  his  interest  in  you 
is  limited  by  the  fact  that  you  robbed  Lila  of  her  father. 
All  your  cancer  and  heart  burnings,  Mag,  have  been  your 
own  selfishness.  Lord,  woman — I  know  you." 

He  turned  his  hard  gaze  upon  her  and  she  winced.  But 
she  clearly  was  enjoying  the  quarrel.  It  stimulated  her  taut 
nerves.  The  house  behind  her  was  empty.  She  felt  free  to 
brawl. 

"And  you?  And  you?"  she  jeered.  "I  suppose  he's 
made  a  saint  of  you." 

The  man's  face  softened,  as  he  said  simply,  "I  don't 
claim  to  be  a  saint,  Mag.  But  I  owe  Kenyon  everything  I 
am  in  the  world — everything." 

"Well,  it  isn't  much  of  a  debt,"  she  laughed. 

"No,"  he  repeated,  "it's  not  much  of  a  debt."  After  a 
moment  he  added,  "Doctor  Nesbit  has  kept  this  secret  all 
these  years.  Now  it's  time  to  let  these  people  know.  You 
can  see  why,  and  the  only  reason  I  came  to  you — " 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   507 

"You  came  to  me,  Grant,"  she  cried,  "to  tell  me  you  were 
going  to  shame  me  before  that — that — before  her — that  old, 
yellow-haired  tabby,  who  goes  around  doing  good!  Ugh — " 

Grant  stared  at  her  blankly  a  full,  uncomprehensive  min 
ute.  Finally  Margaret  went  on:  "And  I  suppose  the  next 
thing  you  long-nosed  busybodies  will  do  will  be  to  get  chicken 
hearted  about  Tom  Van  Dorivs  rights  in  the  matter.  Ah, 
you  hypocrites!"  she  cried. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Grant  sternly;  "if  Lila 
should  go  to  her  father  for  advice — why  shouldn't  he  have 
all  the  facts?" 

Margaret  rose.  Her  bright,  glassy  eyes  flashed.  Anger 
colored  her  face.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  as  she  exclaimed : 
"But  she'll  not  go  to  him.  Oh,  he's  perfectly  foolish  about 
her.  Every  time  a  photographer  in  this  town  takes  her  pic 
ture,  he  snoops  around  and  gets  one.  He  has  her  picture  in 
his  watch,  in  which  he  thinks  she  looks  like  the  Van  Doras. 
When  he  goes  away  he  takes  her  picture  in  a  leather  frame 
and  puts  it  on  his  table  in  the  hotel — except  when  I'm 
around."  She  laughed.  "Ain't  it  funny?  Ain't  it 
funny,"  she  chattered  hysterically,  "him  doddering  the  way 
he  does  about  her,  and  her  freezing  the  life  out  of  him?" 
She  shook  with  mirth,  and  went  on:  "Oh,  the  devil's 
coming  round  for  Tom  Van  Dorn's  soul — and  all  there  is  of 
it — all  there  is  of  it  is. the  little  green  spot  where  he  loves 
this  brat.  The  rest's  all  rotted  out !" 

She  laughed  foolishly.     Then  Grant  said: 

"Well,  Mag — I  must  be  going.  1  just  thought  it  would  be 
square  to  tell  you  before  I  go  any  further.  About  the 
other — the  affair  of  Lila  and  her  father  is  no  concern  of 
mine.  That's  for  Lila  and  her  mother  to  settle.  But  you 
and  I  and  Kenyon  are  bound  together  by  the  deepest  tie  in 
the  world,  Maggie.  And  I  had  to  come  to  you."  She 
stared  into  his  gnarled  face,  then  shut  her  eyes,  and  in  an 
instant  wherein  they  were  closed  she  lapsed  into  her  favor 
ite  pose  and  disappeared  behind  her  mask. 

"Vurry  kind  of  you,  I'm  shuah.  Chahmed  to  have  this 
little  talk  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  empty  face,  saw  the  drugged  eyes,  and 


508  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  smirking  mouth,  and  felt  infinitely  sad  as  a  flash  of  her 
girlhood  came  back  to  his  memory.  "Well,  good-by,  Mag," 
he  said  gently,  and  turned  and  went  down  the  steps. 

The  messenger  boy  whom  Grant  Adams  passed  as  he  went 
down  the  walk  to  the  street  from  the  Van  Dorn  home,  put 
a  telegram  into  Mrs.  Van  Dorn's  lap.  It  was  from  Wash 
ington  and  read : 

"Appointment  as  Federal  Judge  assured.  Notify  Sands.  Have  Cal 
vin  prepare  article  for  Monday's  Times  and  other  papers." 

She  re-read  it,  held  it  in  her  hand  for  a  time  as  she  looked 
hungrily  into  the  future. 

While  Grant  Adams  and  Margaret  were  talking,  the  two 
old  men  on  the  porch,  who  once  would  have  grappled  with 
the  problems  of  the  great  first  cause,  dropped  into  cackling 
reminiscences  of  the  old  days  of  the  sixties  and  seventies 
when  they  were  young  men  in  their  twenties  and  Harvey  was 
an  unbleached  yellow  pine  stain  on  the  prairie  grass.  So 
they  forgot  the  flight  of  time,  and  forgot  that  indoors  the 
music  had  stopped,  and  that  two  young  voices  were  cooing 
behind  the  curtains.  Upstairs,  Laura  Van  Dorn  and  her 
mother,  reading,  tried  with  all  their  might  and  main  to  be 
oblivious  to  the  fact  that  the  music  had  stopped,  and  that 
certain  suppressed  laughs  and  gasps  and  long,  silent  gaps  in 
the  irregular  conversation  meant  rather  too  obvious  love- 
making  for  an  affair  which  had  not  been  formally  recognized 
by  the  family.  Yet  the  formality  was  all  that  was  lacking. 
For  if  ever  an  affair  of  the  heart  was  encouraged,  was  pro 
moted,  was  greeted  with  everything  but  hurrahs  and  ho- 
sannas  by  the  family  of  the  lady  thereunto  appertaining, 
it  was  the  love  affair  of  Kenyon  Adams  and  Lila  Van 
Dorn. 

The  youth  and  the  maiden  below  stairs  were  exceedingly 
happy.  They  went  through  the  elaborate  business  of  love- 
making,  from  the  first  touch  of  thrilling  fingers  to  such  pas 
sionately  rapturous  embraces  as  they  might  steal  half 
watched  and  half  tolerated,  and  the  mounting  joy  in  their 
hearts  left  no  room  for  fear  of  the  future.  As  they  sat  toy 
ing  and  frivoling  behind  the  curtains  of  the  wide  living 
room  in  the  Nesbit  home,  they  saw  Grant  Adams's  big,  awk- 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   509 

ward  figure  hurrying  across  the  lawn.  He  walked  with 
stooping  shoulders  and  bowed  head,  and  held  his  claw  hand 
behind  him  in  his  flinty,  red-haired  hand. 

4 'Where  has  he  been?"  asked  Kenyon,  as  he  peered 
through  the  open  curtain,  with  his  arm  about  the  girl. 

"I  don't  know.  The  Mortons  aren't  at  home  this  after 
noon;  they  all  went  out  in  the  Captain's  big  car,"  answered 
the  girl. 

''Well, — I  wonder — "  mused  the  youth. 

Lila  snatched  the  window  curtain,  and  closing  it,  whis 
pered:  "Quick — quick — we  don't  care — quick — they  may 
come  in  when  he  gets  on  the  porch." 

Through  a  thin  slit  in  the  closed  curtains  they  watched 
the  gaunt  figure  climb  the  veranda  steps  and  they  heard 
the  elders  ask : 

"Well?"  and  the  younger  man  replied,  "Nothing — noth 
ing — "  he  repeated,  "but  heartbreak." 

Then  he  added  as  he  walked  to  the  half-open  door,  "Doc 
tor — it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  go  to  Laura  now ;  to  Laura 
and  her  mother." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Doctor,  "I  suppose  that  is  the  thing 
to  do." 

Grant's  hand  was  on  the  door  screen,  and  the  Doctor's 
eyes  grew  bright  with  emotion,  as  he  called : 

"You're  a  trump,  boy." 

The  two  old  men  looked  at  each  other  mutely  and  watched 
the  door  closing  after  him.  Inside,  Grant  said:  "Lila — 
ask  your  mother  and  grandmother  if  they  can  come  to  the 
Doctor's  little  office — I  want  to  speak  to  them."  After  the 
girl  had  gone,  Grant  stood  by  Kenyon,  with  his  arm  about 
the  young  man,  looking  down  at  him  tenderly.  When  he 
heard  the  women  stirring  above  on  the  stairs,  Grant  patted 
Kenyori's  shoulder,  while  the  man's  face  twitched  and  the 
muscles  of  his  hard  jaw  worked  as  though  he  were  chewing 
a  bitter  cud. 

The  three,  Grant  and  the  mother  and  the  mother's  mother, 
left  the  lovers  in  such  awe  as  love  may  hold  in  the  midst  of 
its  rapture,  and  when  the  office  door  had  closed,  and  the 
women  were  seated,  Grant  Adams,  who  stood  holding  to  a 
chair  back,  spoke : 


510  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"It's  about  Kenyon.  And  I  don't  know,  perhaps  I  should 
have  spoken  sooner.  But  I  must  speak  now." 

The  two  women  gazed  inquiringly  at  him  with  sympa 
thetic  faces.  lie  was  deeply  embarrassed,  and  his  embar 
rassment  seemed  to  accentuate  a  kind  of  caste  difference 
between  them. 

"Yes,  Grant,"  said  Mrs.  Nesbit,  "of  course,  we  know  about 
Lila  and  Kenyon.  Nothing  in  the  world  could  please  us 
more  than  to  see  them  happy  together." 

"I  know,  ma'am,"  returned  Grant,  twirling  his  chair 
nervously.  "That's  just  the  trouble.  Maybe  they  can't  be 
happy  together." 

"Why,  Grant,"  exclaimed  Laura,  "what's  to  hinder?" 

"Stuff!"  sniffed  Mrs.  Nesbit. 

He  looked  up  then,  and  the  two  women  could  see  that  he 
flinched. 

"Well, — I  don't  know  how  to  say  it,  but  you  must  know 
it."  He  stopped,  arid  they  saw  anguish  in  his  face.  "But 
I — Laura,"  he  turned  to  the  younger  woman  and  made  a 
pitiful  gesture  with  his  whole  hand,  "do  you  remember  back 
when  you  were  a  girl  away  at  school  and  I  stopped  writing 
to  you?" 

"Yes,  Grant,"  replied  Laura,  "so  well — so  well,  and  you 
never  would  say — " 

"Because  I  had  no  right  to,"  he  cut  in,  "it  was  not  my 
secret — to  tell — then. ' ' 

Mrs.  Nesbit  sat  impatiently  on  her  chair  edge,  as  one  wait 
ing  for  a  foolish  formality  to  pass.  She  looked  at  the 
clumsy,  hulky  figure  of  a  man  in  his  ill-fitting  Sunday 
clothes,  and  obviously  was  rather  irritated  at  his  ill-timed 
interjection  of  his  own  childhood  affair  into  an  entirely 
simple  problem  of  true  love  running  smoothly.  But  her 
daughter,  seeing  the  anguish  in  the  man's  twisted  face,  was 
stricken  with  a  terror  in  her  heart.  Laura  knew  that  no 
light  emotion  had  grappled  him,  and  when  her  mother  said, 
"Well  I"  sharply,  the  daughter  rose  and  went  to  him,  touch 
ing  his  hand  gently  that  had  been  gripping  the  chair- 
back.  She  said,  "Yes,  Grant,  but  why  do  you  have  to  tell 
it  now?" 

"Because,"  he  answered  passionately,  "you  should  know, 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   511 

and  Lila  should  know  and  your  mother  should  know.  Your 
father  and  L  and  my  father  all  think  so.'"' 

Mrs.  Nesbit  sat  back  further  in  her  chair.  Her  face 
showed  anxiety.  She  looked  at  the  two  others  and  when 
Laura's  eyes  met  her  mother's,  there  was  a  warning  in  the 
daughter's  glance  which  kept  her  mother  silent. 

"Grant,"  said  Laura,  as  she  stood  beside  the  gaunt  figure, 
on  which  a  mantle  of  shame  seemed  to  be  falling,  "there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  that  should  be  hard  for  you  to  tell  me — 
or  mother." 

"It  isn't  you,"  he  returned,  and  then  lifting  his  face  and 
trying  to  catch  the  elder  woman's  eyes,  he  said  slowly: 

"Mrs.  Nesbit— I'm  Kenyon's  father." 

He  caught  Laura's  hand  in  his  own,  and  held  her  from 
stepping  back.  Laura  did  not  speak.  Mrs.  Nesbit  gazed 
blankly  at  the  two  and  in  the  silence  the  little  mantel  clock 
ticked  into  their  consciousnesses.  Finally  the  elder  woman, 
who  had  grown  white  as  some  old  suspicion  or  fatal  recol 
lection  Hashed  through  her  mind,  asked  in  an  unsteady  voice: 
"And  his  mother?" 

"II is  mother  was  Margaret  Miiller,  Mrs.  Nesbit,"  an 
swered  the  man. 

Then  anger  glowed  in  the  white  face  as  Mrs.  Nesbit  rose 
and  stepped  toward  the  downcast  man.  "Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  you — "  She  did  not  finish,  but  began  again,  not 
noticing  that  the  door  behind  her  had  let  in  her  husband: 
"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  let  me  go  on  all  these 
years  nursing  that — that,  that — creature's  child  and — " 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  touching  her  arm,  and 
taking  her  hand,  "I  have."  She  turned  on  her  husband  her 
startled,  hurt  face  and  exclaimed,  "And  you,  Jim — you  too 
—you  too?" 

"What  else  could  I  do  in  honor,  my  dear?  And  it  has 
been  for  the  best." 

"No,"  she  cried  angrily;  "no,  see  what  you  have  brought 
to  us,  Jim — that  hussy's — her,  why,  her  very — " 

The  years  had  told  upon  Doctor  Nesbit.  He  could  not 
rise  to  the  struggle  as  he  could  have  risen  a  decade  before. 
His  hands  were  shaking  and  his  voice  broke  as  he  replied : 
"Yes,  my  dear — I  know — I  know.  But  while  she  bore  him, 


512  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

we  have  formed  him."  To  her  darkening  face  he  repeated: 
"You  have  formed  him — and  made  him — you  and  the 
Adamses — with  your  love.  And  love,"  his  soft,  high  voice 
was  tender  as  he  concluded,  "love  purges  everything — 
doesn't  it,  Bedelia?" 

"Yes,  father, — love  is  enough.  Oh,  Grant,  Grant — it 
doesn't  matter — not  to  me.  Poor — poor  Margaret,  what 
she  has  lost — what  she  has  lost!"  said  the  younger  woman, 
as  she  stood  close  to  Grant  and  looked  deeply  into  his  an 
guished  face.  Mrs.  Nesbit  stood  wet-eyed,  and  spent  of  her 
wrath,  looking  at  the  three  before  her. 

"0  God — my  God,  forgive  me — but  I  can't — Oh,  Laura — 
Jim — I  can't,  I  can't,  not  that  woman's — not  her — her — " 
She  stopped  and  cried  miserably,  "You  all  know  what  he  is, 
and  whose  he  is."  Again  she  stopped  and  looked  beseech 
ingly  around.  "Oh,  you  won't  let  Lila — she  wouldn't  do 
that — not  take  that  woman's — that  woman  who  disgraced 
Lila's  mother — Lila  must  not  take  her  child — Oh,  Jim,  you 
won't  let  that—' 

As  she  spoke  Mrs.  Nesbit  sank  to  a  sofa  near  the  door,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  pillow.  The  three  who  watched  her 
turned  blank,  inquiring  faces  to  one  another. 

* l  Perhaps, ' '  the  Doctor  began  hesitatingly  and  impotently, 
"Lila  should— " 

"What  does  she  know — what  can  a  child  of  twenty 
know,"  answered  the  grandmother  from  her  pillow,  "of  the 
taint  of  that  blood,  of  the  devil  she  will  transmit?  Why, 
Jim — Oh,  Jim — Lila's  not  old  enough  to  decide.  She  mustn't 
— she  mustn't — we  mustn't  let  her."  Mrs.  Nesbit  raised  her 
body  and  asked  as  one  who  grasps  a  shadow,  "Won't  you  ask 
her  to  wait — to  wait  until  she  can  understand?" 

A  question  passed  from  face  to  face  among  those  who 
stood  beside  the  elder  woman,  and  Dr.  Nesbit  answered  it. 
Strength — the  power  that  came  from  a  habit  of  forty  years 
of  dominating  situations — came  to  him  and  he  stepped  to 
his  wife's  side.  The  two  stood  together,  facing  the  younger 
pair.  The  Doctor  spoke,  not  as  an  arbiter,  but  as  an  advo 
cate: 

"Laura,  your  mother  has  her  right  to  be  considered  here. 


DARKNESS  FALLS  UPON  TWO  LOVERS   513 

All  three  of  you;  Kenyon  himself,  and  you  and  Lila— she 
has  reared.  She  has  made  you  all  what  you  are.  Her  wishes 
must  be  regarded  now."  Mrs.  Nesbit  rose  while  the  Doctor 
was  speaking.  He  took  her  hand  as  was  his  wont  and  turned 
to  her,  saying:  "Mother,  how  will  this  do:  Let's  do  noth 
ing  now,  not  to-day  at  any  rate.  You  must  all  adjust  your 
selves  to  the  facts  that  reveal  this  new  relation  before  you 
can  make  an  honest  decision.  When  we  have  done  that,  let 
Laura  and  her  mother  tell  Lila  the  truth,  and  let  each  tell 
the  child  exactly  how  she  feels;  and  then,  if  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  it,  leave  it  to  her;  if  she  will  wait  for  a  time 
until  she  understands  her  grandmother's  point  of  view — very 
well.  If  not— " 

"If  not,  mother,  Lila's  decision  must  stand."  This  came 
from  Laura,  who  stepped  over  and  kissed  her  mother's 
hand.  The  father  looked  tenderly  at  his  daughter  and  shook 
his  head  as  he  answered  softly:  "If  not — no,  I  shall  stand 
with  mother — she  has  her  right — the  realest  right  of  all!" 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  course  of  true  love  in  the 
hearts  of  Lila  Van  Dorn  and  Kenyon  Adams  had  its  first 
sharp  turning.  And  all  the  world  was  overclouded  for  two 
souls.  But  they  were  only  two  souls  and  the  world  is  full  of 
light.  And  the  light  falls  upon  men  and  women  without 
much  respect  for  class  or  station,  for  good  deeds  or  bad  deeds, 
for  the  weak  or  for  the  strong,  for  saints  or  sinners.  For 
know  well,  truly  beloved,  that  chance  and  circumstance  fall 
out  of  the  great  machine  of  life  upon  us,  hodge  podge  and 
helter  skelter;  good  is  not  rewarded  by  prizes  from  the 
wheel  of  fortune  nor  bad  punished  by  its  calamities.  Only 
as  our  hearts  react  on  life,  do  we  get  happiness  or  misery, 
not  from  the  events  that  follow  the  procession  of  the  days. 

Now  for  a  moment  let  us  peep  through  the  clouds  that 
lowered  over  the  young  souls  aforesaid.  Clouds  in  youth  are 
vastly  black ;  but  they  are  never  thick.  And  peering  through 
those  clouds,  one  may  see  the  lovers,  groping  in  the  umbrage. 
It  does  not  matter  much  to  us,  and  far  less  does  it  matter 
to  them  how  they  have  made  their  farewell  meeting.  It  is 
night  and  they  are  coming  from  Captain  Morton's. 

Hand  in  hand  they  skip  across  the  lawn,  and  soon  are  hid- 


514  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

den  in  the  veranda.  They  sit  arm  in  arm,  on  a  swinging 
porch  chair,  and  have  no  great  need  for  words.  "What  is 
it — what  is  the  reason  ? ' '  asked  the  youth. 

"Well,  dear" — it  is  an  adventure  to  say  the  word  out  loud 
after  whispering  it  for  so  many  days — "dear,"  she  repeated, 
and  feels  the  pressure  of  his  arm  as  she  speaks,  "it's  some 
thing  about  you !'" 

"But  what?"  he  persisted. 

"We  don't  know  now,"  she  returns.  "And  really  what 
does  it  matter,  only  we  can't  hurt  grandma,  and  it  won't 
be  for  long.  It  can't  be  for  long,  and  then — " 

"We  don't  care  now, — not  to-night,  do  we?"  She  lifts 
her  head  from  his  shoulder,  and  puts  up  her  lips  for  the 
answer.  It  is  all  new — every  thrill  of  the  new-found  joy  of 
one  another's  being  is  strange;  every  touch  of  the  hands, 
of  cheeks,  every  pressure  of  arms — all  are  gloriously  beau 
tiful. 

Once  in  life  may  human  beings  know  the  joy  these  lovers 
knew  that  night.  The  angels  lend  it  once  and  then,  if  we 
are  good,  they  let  us  keep  it  in  our  memories  always.  If 
not,  then  God  sends  His  infinite  pity  instead. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

IN  WHICH   WE  SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN,  WITH   GEORGE  BROTH- 

ERTON,    AND    IN    GENERAL   CONSIDER    THE    HABITANTS 

OF   THE   KINGDOM 

MB.  BROTHERTON  had  been  pacing  the  deck  of  his 
store  like  the  captain  of  a  pirate  ship  in  a  storm. 
Nothing  in  the  store  suited  him;  he  found  Miss 
Calvin's  high  facade  of  hair  too  rococo  for  the  attenuated 
lines  of  gray  and  lavender  and  heliotrope  that  had  replaced 
the  angular  effects  in  red  and  black  and  green  and  brown  of 
former  years.  He  had  asked  her  to  tone  it  down  to  make  it 
match  the  long-necked  gray  jars  and  soft  copper  vases  that 
adorned  the  gray  burlapped  Serenity,  and  she  had  appeared 
with  it  slopping  over  her  ears,  "as  per  yours  of  even  date!" 
And  still  he  paced  the  deck. 

He  picked  up  Zola's  "Fecundite,"  which  he  had  taken 
from  stock ;  tried  to  read  it ;  put  it  down ;  sent  for  ' '  Tom 
Sawyer";  got  up,  went  after  Dickens 's  "Christmas  Books," 
and  put  them  down;  peeped  into  "Little  Women,"  and 
watched  the  trade,  as  Miss  Calvin  handled  it,  occasionally 
dropping  his  book  for  a  customer;  hunted  for  "The  Three 
Bears,"  which  he  found  in  large  type  with  gorgeous  pic 
tures,  read  it,  and  decided  that  it  was  real  literature. 

Amos  Adams  came  drifting  in  to  borrow  a  book.  He 
moved  slowly,  a  sort  of  gray  wraith  almost  discarnate  and 
apart  from  things  of  the  earth.  Brotherton,  looking  at  the 
old  man,  felt  a  candor  one  might  have  in  addressing  a  state 
of  mind.  So  the  big  voice  spoke  gently : 

"Here,  Mr.  Adams,"  called  Brotherton.  "Won't  you 
come  back  here  and  talk  to  me1?"  But  the  shopkeeper  felt 
that  he  should  put  the  elder  man  at  his  ease,  so  he  added: 
"You're  a  wise  guy,  as  the  Latin  fathers  used  to  say.  Any 
way,  if  Jasper  ever  gets  to  a  point  where  he  thinks  marriage 
will  pay  six  per  cent,  over  and  above  losses,  you  may  be  a 

515 


516  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

kind  of  step-uncle-in-law  of  mine.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Adams — 
what  about  children — do  they  pay?  You  know,  I've  always 
wanted  children.  But  now — well,  you  see,  I  never  thought 
but  that  people  just  kind  of  picked  'em  off  the  bushes  as 
you  do  huckleberries.  I'm  getting  so  that  I  can't  look  at  a 
great  crowd  of  people  without  thinking  of  the  loneliness, 
suffering  and  self-denial  that  it  cost  to  bring  all  of  them  into 
the  world.  Good  Lord,  man,  I  don't  want  lots  of  children  — 
not  now.  And  yet,  children— children— why,  if  we  could 
open  a  can  and  have  'em  as  we  do  most  things,  from  sar 
dines  to  grand  opera,  I'd  like  hundreds  of  them.  Yet,  I 
dunno,"  Air.  Brotherton  wagged  a  thoughtful  head. 

But  Amos  Adams  rejoined:  "Ah,  yes,  George,  but  when 
you  think  of  what  it  means  for  two  people  to  bring  a  child 
into  the  world — what  the  journey  means — the  slow,  inexora 
ble  journey  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  means  for  them, 
close  together;  what  tenderness  springs  up;  what  sacrifices 
come  forth;  what  firm  knitting  of  lives;  what  new  kind  of 
love  is  bred — you  are  inclined  to  think  maybe  Providence 
knew  what  it  was  about  when  it  brought  children  into  life  by 
the  cruel  path." 

Mr.  Brotherton  nodded  a  sympathetic  head. 

' 'Let  me  tell  you  something,  George,"  continued  Amos. 
"It's  through  their  hope  of  bettering  the  children  that 
Grant  has  moved  his  people  in  the  Valley  out  on  the  little 
garden  plots.  There  they  are — every  warmish  day  thou 
sands  of  mothers  and  children  and  old  men,  working  their 
little  plots  of  ground,  trudging  back  to  the  tenements  in 
the  evening.  The  love  of  children  is  the  one  steady,  un 
swerving  passion  in  these  lives,  and  Grant  has  nearly  har 
nessed  it,  George.  And  it's  because  Nate  Perry  has  that 
love  that  he's  giving  freely  here  for  those  poor  folks  a  talent 
that  would  make  him  a  millionaire,  and  is  running  his  mines, 
and  his  big  foundry  with  Cap  Morton  besides.  It's  perfectly 
splendid  to  see  the  way  a  common  fatherhood  between  him 
and  the  men  is  making  a  brotherhood.  Why,  man,"  cried 
Amos,  "it  refreshes  one's  faith  like  a  tragedy." 

"Hello,  Aunt  Avey,"  piped  the  cheery  voice  of  the  little 
old  Doctor,  as  he  came  toddling  through  the  front  door. 
"It's  a  boy— Joe  Calvin  the  Third."  The  Doctor  came  back 


SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  517 

to  the  desk  where  Amos  was  standing  and  took  a  chair,  and 
as  Amos  drifted  out  of  the  store  as  impersonally  as  he  came, 
the  Doctor  began  to  grin. 

"We  Were  just  talking  of  children,"  said  Brotherton  with 
studied  casualness.  "You  know,  Doctor,"  Brotherton 
smiled  abashed,  "I've  always  thought  I'd  like  lots  of  chil 
dren.  But  now — " 

"I  see  'em  come,  and  I  see  'em  go  every  day.  I  in  kind 
of  getting  used  to  death,  George.  But  the  miracle  of  birth 
grows  stranger  and  stranger. 

"So  young  Joe  Calvin's  a  proud  parent,  is  he?     Boy,  you 


""Boy,"  chuckled  the  Doctor,  "and  old  Joe's  out  there 
having  a  nervous  breakdown.  They've  had  ten  births  in 
the  Calvin  family.  I've  attended  all  of  'em,  and  this  is  the 
first  time  old  Joe's  ever  been  allowed  in  the  house.  To-day 
the  old  lady's  out  there  with  a  towel  around  her  head,  prac 
tically  having  that  baby  herself.  The  poor  daughter-in-law 
hasn't  seen  it.  You'd  think  she  was  only  invited  ^  in  as  a 
sort  of  paying  guest.  And  old  lady  Calvin  comes  in  every 
few  minutes  and  delivers  homilies  on  the  joys  of  large  fam 
ilies!" 

The  Doctor  laughed  until  his  blue  old  eyes  watered,  and 
he  chirped  when  he  had  his  laugh  out:  "How  soon  we 
forget!  Which,  I  presume,  is  one  of  God's  semi-precious 
blessings!" 

When  the  Doctor  went  out,  Brotherton  found  the  store 
deserted,  except  for  Miss  Calvin,  who  was  in  front.  Broth 
erton  carried  a  log  to  the  fireplace,  stirred  up  the  fire,  and 
when  he  had  it  blazing,  found  Laura  Van  Dorn  standing 
beside  him. 

"Well,  George,"  she  said,  "I've  just  been  stealing  away 
from  my  children  in  the  Valley  for  a  little  visit  with 

Emma." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton,  "sit  down  a 
minute  with  me.  Tell  me,  Laura— about  children— are  they 
worth  it?" 

She  was  a  handsome  woman,  with  youth  still  in  her  eyes 
and  face,  who  sat  beside  George  Brotherton,  looking  at  the 
fire  that  March  day.  "George— good  old  friend,"  she  said 


518  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

gently,  "there's  nothing  else  in  the  world  so  worth  it  as 
children. ' ' 

She  hesitated  before  going  so  deeply  into  her  soul,  per 
haps  picking  her  verbal  way.  "George — no  man  ever  de 
graded  a  woman  more  than  I  was  degraded.  Yet  I  brought 
Lila  out  of  it,  and  I  thank  God  for  her,  and  I  don't  mind  the 
price — not  now. ' '  She  turned  to  look  at  Mr.  Brotherton  in 
quiringly  as  she  said:  "But  what  I  come  in  to  talk  to  you 
about,  George,  was  Grant.  Have  you  noticed  in  the  last  few 
months — that  growing — well — it's  more  than  enthusiasm, 
George ;  it's  a  fanaticism.  Since  he  has  been  working  on  the 
garden  plan — Grant  has  been  getting  wilder  and  wilder  in 
his  talk  about  the  Democracy  of  labor.  Have  you  noticed  it 
— or  am  I  oversensitive?" 

Brotherton,  poking  idly  in  the  fire,  did  not  answer  at 
once.  At  length  he  said: 

"Grant's  a  zealot.  He's  full  of  this  prisms,  prunes  and 
peace  idea,  this  sweetness  and  light  revolution,  this  notion 
of  hitching  their  hop-dreams  to  these  three-acre  plots,  and 
preaching  non-resistance.  It's  coming  a  little  fast  for  me, 
Laura — just  a  shade  too  many  at  times.  But,  on  the  other 
hand — there's  Nate  Perry.  He's  as  cold-blooded  a  Yankee 
as  ever  swindled  a  father — and  he's  helping  with  the  scheme. 
He's—" 

"He  has  no  faith  in  the  Democracy  of  Labor.  He  hoots," 
interrupted  Laura.  "What  he's  doing  is  working  for  a  more 
efficient  lot  of  laboring  men,  so  that  when  the  time  comes 
when  the  unions  shall  ask  and  get  more  definite  control  of 
the  factories  and  mines,  in  the  way  of  wage-setting,  and 
price-making,  they  will  bring  some  sense  with  their  control. 
He's  merely  looking  after  himself — in  the  last  analysis;  but 
Grant's  going  mad.  George,  he  actually  believes  that  when 
this  thing  wins  here  in  the  Valley — the  peaceful  strike,  the 
rise  of  labor,  and  the  theory  of  non-resistance — he's  going 
over  the  world,  and  in  a  few  years  will  have  labor  emanci 
pated.  Have  you  heard  him — that  is,  recently?" 

"Well,  yes,  a  week  or  so  ago,"  answered  Brotherton,  "and 
he  was  going  it  at  a  pretty  fair  clip  for  a  minute  then. 
Well,  say — I  mean — what  should  we  do?"  he  asked,  drum 
ming  with  the  poker  on  the  hearth.  "Laura,"  Brotherton 


SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  519 

ran  his  eyes  from  the  poker  until  they  met  her  frank,  gray 
eyes,  ''Grant  would  listen  to  you  before  he  would  listen  to 
any  one  else  on  earth  or  in  Heaven — I'm  sure  of  that." 

"Then  what  shall  we  do?"  she  asked.  "We  mustn't  let 
him  wreck  himself — and  all  these  people?  What  ought  I — " 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  door,  and  in  another  moment 
there  stood  in  the  opening  of  the  alcove  the  tall,  lean  figure) 
of  Thomas  Van  Dorn. 

When  Laura  was  gone,  Van  Dorn,  after  more  or  less  polite 
circumlocution,  began  to  unfold  a  plan  of  Market  Street  to 
buy  the  Daily  Times  and  bring  Jared  Thurston  back  to 
Harvey  to  run  it  in  the  interests  of  the  property  owners  in 
the  town  and  in  the  Valley.  Incidentally  he  had  come  to 
warn  George  on  behalf  of  Market  Street  that  he  was  har 
boring  Grant  Adams,  contrary  to  the  judgment  of  Market 
Street.  But  George  Brotherton 's  heart  was  far  from  Mar 
ket  Street ;  it  was  out  on  the  hill  with  Emma,  his  wife,  and 
his  mouth  spoke  from  the  place  of  his  treasure. 

"Tom — tell  me,  as  between  man  and  man,  what  do  you 
think  of  children?  You're  sort  of  in  the  outer  room  of  the 
Blue  Lodge  of  grandfatherdom,  with  Lila  and  Kenyon  get 
ting  ready  for  the  preacher,  and  you  ought  to  know,  Tom — 
honest,  man,  how  about  it?" 

A  wave  of  self-pity  enveloped  the  Judge.  His  voice  broke 
as  he  answered:  "George,  I  haven't  any  little  girl — she 
never  even  has  spoken  to  me  about  this  affair  that  the  whole 
town  knows  about.  Oh,  I  haven't  any  child  at  all." 

He  looked  a  miserable  moment  at  Brotherton,  perhaps  re 
viewing  the  years  which  they  had  lived  and  grown  from 
youth  to  middle  age  together  and  growled:  "Not  a  thing — 
not  a  damned  thing  in  it — George,  in  all  this  forty  years 
of  fighting  to  keep  ahead  of  the  undertaker!  Not  a  God 
damned  thing!"  And  so  he  left  the  Sweet  Serenity  of 
Books  and  Wall  Paper  and  went  back  to  the  treadmill  of 
life,  spitting  ashes  from  his  gray  lips! 

And  then  Daniel  Sands  toddled  in  to  get  the  five-cent 
cigars  which  he  had  bought  for  a  generation — one  at  a 
time  every  day,  and  Brotherton  came  to  Daniel  with  his 
problem. 

The  old  man,  whose  palsied  head  forever  was  denying 


520  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

something,  as  if  he  had  the  assessor  always  in  his  mind,  shut 
his  rheumy  eyes  and  answered:  "My  children — bauch — " 
He  all  but  spat  upon  their  names.  "Morty — moons  around 
reading  Socialist  books,  with  a  cold  in  his  throat  and  dish 
water  in  his  brains.  And  the  other,  she's  married  a  dirty 
traitor  and  stands  by  him  against  her  own  flesh  and  blood. 
Ba-a-a-ch!"  lie  showed  his  blue,  old  mouth,  and  cried: 

"I  married  four  women  to  give  those  children  a  home — 
and  what  thanks  do  I  get  ?  Ingrates — one  a  milk-sop — God, 
if  he'd  only  be  a  Socialist  and  get  out  and  throw  dyna 
mite;  but  he  won't;  he  won't  do  a  thing  but  sit  around 
drooling  about  social  justice  when  I  want  to  eat  my  meals 
in  peace.  And  he  goes  coughing  all  day  and  night,  and 
grunting,  and  now  he's  wearing  a  pointed  beard — he  says 
it's  for  his  throat,  but  I  know — it's  because  he  thinks  it's 
romantic.  And  that  Anne — why,  she's  worse,"  but  he  did 
not  finish  the  sentence.  His  old  head  wagged  violently. 
Evidently  another  assessor  had  suddenly  pounced  in  upon 
his  imagination.  For  he  shuffled  into  the  street. 

Mr.  Brotherton  sat  by  the  fire,  leaning  forward,  with  his 
fingers  locked  between  his  knees.  The  warning  against 
Grant  Adams  that  Tom  Van  Dorn  had  given  him  had  im 
pressed  him.  He  knew  Market  Street  was  against  Grant 
Adams.  But  he  did  not  realize  that  Market  Street's  atti 
tude  was  only  a  reflex  of  the  stir  in  the  Valley.  All  Market 
streets  over  the  earth  feel  more  or  less  acutely  changes 
which  portend  in  the  workshops,  often  before  those  changes 
come.  We  are  indeed  "members  one  of  another,"  and  the 
very  aspirations  of  those  who  dream  of  better  things  register 
in  the  latent  fears  of  those  who  live  on  trade.  We  are  so 
closely  compact  in  our  organization  that  a  man  may  not  even 
hope  without  crowding  his  neighbor.  And  in  that  little  sec 
tion  of  the  great  world  which  men  knew  as  Market  Street 
in  Harvey,  the  surest  evidence  of  the  changing  attitude  of 
the  men  in  the  Valley  toward  their  work,  was  found  not  in 
the  crowds  that  gathered  in  Belgian  Hall  week  after  week 
to  hear  Grant  Adams,  not  in  the  war-chest  which  was  filling 
to  overflowing,  not  in  the  gardens  checkered  upon  the  hill 
sides,  but  rather  in  the  uneasiness  of  Market  Street.  The 
reactions  were  different  in  Market  Street  and  in  the  Valley ; 


SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  521 

but  it  was  one  vision  rising  in  the  same  body,  each  part  re 
sponding  according  to  its  own  impulses.  Of  course  Market 
Street  has  its  side,  and  George  Brotherton  was  not  blind  to 
it.  Sitting  by  his  tire  that  raw  March  day,  he  realized  that 
Market  Street  was  never  a  crusader,  and  why.  He  could 
see  that  the  men  from  whom  the  storekeepers  bought  goods 
on  ninety  days'  time,  3  per  cent,  off  for  cash,  were  not  cru 
saders.  When  a  man  turned  up  among  them  with  a  six- 
months'  crusade  for  an  evanescent  millennium,  flickering 
just  a  few  years  ahead,  the  wholesalers  of  the  city  and  the 
retailers  of  Market  Street  nervously  began  thumbing  over 
their  rapidly  accumulating  "bills  payable"  and  began  using 
crisp,  scratchy  language  toward  the  crusader. 

It  made  Brotherton  pause  when  he  thought  how  they  might 
involve  and  envelop  him — as  a  family  man.  For  as  he  sat 
there,  the  man's  mind  kept  thinking  of  children.  And  his 
mind  wandered  to  the  thought  of  his  wife  and  his  home — and 
the  little  ones  that  might  be.  As  his  mind  clicked  back  to 
Amos  Adams,  and  to  the  strange  family  that  would  produce 
three  boys  as  unlike  as  Grant  and  Jasper  and  Kenyon,  he 
began  to  consider  how  far  Kenyon  had  come  for  a  youth  in 
his  twenties.  And  Brotherton  realized  that  he  might  have 
had  a  child  as  old  as  Kenyon.  Then  Mr.  Brotherton  put  his 
hands  over  his  face  and  tried  to  stop  the  flying  years. 

A  shadow  fell,  and  Brotherton  greeted  Captain  Morton,  in 
a  sunburst  of  mauve  tailoring.  The  Captain  pointed 
proudly  to  a  necktie  pin  representing  a  horse  jumping 
through  a  horseshoe,  and  cried:  "What  you  think  of  it? 
Real  diamond  horseshoe  nails — what  say?" 

"Now,  Captain,  sit  down  here,"  said  Mr.  Brotherton. 
"You'll  do,  Captain — you'll  do."  But  the  subject  nearest 
the  big  man's  heart  would  not  leave  it.  "Cap,"  he  said, 
"what  about  children — do  they  pay?" 

"That's  just  it,"  put  in  the' Captain.  "That's  just  what 
I  said  to  Emmy  this  morning.  I  was  out  to  see  her  after 
you  left  and  stayed  until  Laura  Van  Dorn  came  and  chased 
me  off.  Emmy's  mighty  happy,  George — mighty,  mighty 
happy — eh?  Her  mother  always  was  that  way.  I  was  the 
one  that  was  scared."  George  nodded  assent.  "But  to 
day — well,  we  just  sat  there  and  cried — she's  so  happy  about 


522  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

it — eh?  Wimmin,  George,  ain't  scared  a  bit.  I  know  'em. 
I've  been  in  their  kitchins  for  thirty  years,  George,  and 
let  me  tell  you  somepin  funny,"  continued  the  Captain. 
"Old  Ahab  Wright  has  taken  to  smoking  in  public  to  get 
the  liberal  vote !  Let  me  tell  you  somepin  else.  They  've 
decided  to  put  the  skids  under  Grant  Adams  and  his 
gang  down  in  the  Valley,  and  the  other  day  they  ran  into 
a  snag.  You  know  Calvin  &  Calvin  are  representing  the 
owners  since  Tom's  got  this  life  job,  though  he's  got 
all  his  money  invested  down  there  and  still  advises  'em. 
Well,  anyway,  they  decided  to  put  a  barbed-wire  trocha 
around  all  the  mines  and  the  factories.  Well,  four  car 
loads  of  wire  and  posts  shows  up  down  in  the  Valley  this 
week,  and,  'y  gory,  man, — they  can't  get  a  carpenter  in  town 
or  down  there  to  touch  it.  Grant's  got  'em  sewed  up.  But 
Tom  says  he'll  fix  'em  one  of  these  days,  if  they  get  before 
him  in  his  court — what  say  ? ' ' 

"I  suppose  he  will,  Captain,"  replied  Mr.  Brotherton, 
and  took  up  his  theme.  "But  getting  back  to  the  subject 
of  children — I've  been  talking  all  morning  about  'em  to  all 
kinds  of  folks,  and  I've  decided  the  country's  for  'em. 
Children,  Cap,"  Mr.  Brotherton  rose,  put  on  his  coat  and 
took  the  Captain's  arm,  "children,  Captain,"  he  repeated, 
as  they  reached  the  sidewalk  and  were  starting  for  the  street 
car,  "children,  I  figure  it  out — children  are  the  see-ment  of 
civilization !  Well,  say — thus  endeth  the  reading  of  the  first 
lesson!" 

As  they  stood  in  the  corner  transfer  shed  waiting  for  the 
car,  Grant  Adams  came  up.  "Say,  Grant,"  called  Brother- 
ton,  "what  you  goin'  to  do  about  that  barbed  wire  trocha?" 

"Oh,"  smiled  Grant,  "I've  just  about  settled  it.  The 
boys  will  begin  on  it  this  afternoon.  A  lot  of  them  were 
angry  when  they  heard  what  the  owners  were  up  to,  but  I 
said,  'Here:  we've  got  justice  on  our  side.  We  claim  a 
partnership  interest  in  all  those  mines  and  factories  down 
there.  We  contend  that  we  who  labor  there  now  are  the 
legatees  of  all  the  labor  that's  been  killed  and  maimed  and 
cheated  by  long  hours  and  low  wages  down  in  the  Valley 
for  thirty  years,  and  if  we  have  a  partnership  right  in  those 
mines  and  factories,  it's  our  business  to  protect  them.'  So  I 


SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  523 

talked  the  boys  into  putting  up  the  trocha.  I  tell  you, 
George/'  said  Grant,  and  the  tremor  of  emotion  strained  his 
voice  as  he  spoke,  "it  won't  be  long  until  we'll  have  a  part 
nership  in  that  trocha,  just  as  we'll  have  an  interest  in 
every  hammer  and  bolt,  and  ledge  and  vein  in  the  Valley. 
It's  coming,  and  coming  fast — the  Democracy  of  Labor.  I 
have  faith,  the  men  and  women  have  faith — all  over  the 
Valley.  We've  found  the  right  way — the  way  of  peace. 
When  labor  has  proved  its  efficiency — " 

"Ah — you're  crazy,  Grant,"  snapped  the  Captain. 
"This  class  of  people  down  here — these  ignorant  foreigners 
— why,  they  couldn't  run  a  peanut  stand — eh?" 

Dick  Bowman  and  his  son  came  up,  and  not  knowing  a 
discussion  was  in  the  wind,  Dick  shook  hands  around.  And 
after  the  Captain  had  taken  his  uptown  car,  Grant  stood 
apart,  lost  in  thought,  but  Dick  said:  "Well,  Benny,  we 
got  here  in  time  for  the  car ! ' '  Then  craning  his  long  neck, 
the  father  laughed:  "Ben,  here's  a  laboring  man  and  his 
shift  goes  on  at  one — so  he 's  in  a  hurry,  but  we  '11  make  it. ' ' 

"Dick,"  began  Brotherton,  looking  at  the  thin  shadow  of 
a  man  who  was  hardly  Brotherton 's  elder  by  half  a  dozen 
years.  "Dick,  you're  a  kind  of  expert  father,  you  and  Joe 
Calvin,  and  to-day  Joe's  a  granddaddy — tell  me  about  the 
kiddies — are  they  worth  it?" 

Bowman  threw  his  head  back  and  craned  his  long  neck. 
1 '  Not  for  us — not  for  us  poor — maybe  for  you  people  here, ' ' 
said  Bowman,  who  paused  and  counted  on  his  fingers: 
"Eight  born,  three  dead — that's  too  many.  Joe  Calvin,  he's 
raised  all  his  and  they're  doing  fairly  well.  That's  his  girl 
in  here — ain't  it?"  Bowman  sighed.  "Her  and  my  Jean 
played  together  back  in  their  little  days;  before  we  moved 
to  South  Harvey."  He  lowered  his  voice. 

"George,  mother  hasn't  heard  from  Jean  for  going  on  two 
year,  now.  She  went  off  with  a  fellow ;  told  us  she  married 
him — she  was  just  a  child — but  had  been  working  around  in 
the  factories — and,  well,  I  don't  say  so,  but  I  guess  she  just 
has  got  where  she's  ashamed  to  write — maybe." 

His  voice  rose  in  anger  as  he  cried:  "Why  didn't  she 
have  a  show,  like  this  girl  of  Joe's?  He's  no  better  than  I. 
And  you  know  my  wife — well,  she's  no  Mrs.  Joe  Calvin — 


524  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

she's  been  as  happy  about  'em  when  they  came  as  if  they 
were  princes  of  the  blood."  He  stopped. 

"Then  there's  Mugs — I  dunno,  George, — it  seems  like  we 
tried  with  Mugs,  but  all  them  saloons  and — well,  the  gam 
bling  and  the  women  under  his  nose  from  the  time  he  was 
ten  years  old — well,  I  can't  make  him  work.  Little  Jack  is 
steady  enough  for  a  boy  of  twenty — he's  in  the  Company 
mines,  and  we've  put  Ben  in  this  year.  He  is  twelve — 
though,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  blabbing  it;  he's  sup 
posed  to  be  fourteen.  And  little  Betty,  she's  in  school  yet. 
I  don't  know  how  she'll  turn  out.  No,  George,"  he  went 
on,  "children  for  us  poor,  children's  a  mighty  risky,  uncer 
tain  crop.  But,"  he  smiled  reflectively,  "I'm  right  here  to 
tell  you  they're  lots  of  fun  as  little  shavers — growing  up. 
"Why,  George,  you  ought  to  hear  Benny  sing.  Them  Co- 
pinis  of  the  Hot  Dog  found  he  had  a  voice,  and  they've 
taught  him  some  dago  songs."  Ben  was  a  bright-faced  boy 
of  twelve — big  for  his  age,  with  snappy,  brown  eyes  and 
apples  of  cheeks  and  curly  hair.  He  slipped  away  to  look 
into  a  store  window,  leaving  the  two  men  alone.  Mr.  Broth- 
erton  was  in  a  mellow  mood.  He  put  his  great  paw  on  the 
small  man's  shoulder  and  said  huskily: 

"Say,  Dick,  honest,  I'd  rather  have  just  one  boy  like  that 
than  the  whole  damn  Valley — that's  right!" 

The  car  came  bowling  up  and  the  South  Harvey  people 
boarded  it.  Grant  Adams  rode  down  into  the  Valley  with 
great  dreams  in  his  soul.  He  talked  little  to  the  Bowmans, 
but  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  the  dawn  of  another 
day.  It  is  the  curse  of  dreamers  that  they  believe  that 
when  they  are  convinced  of  a  truth,  they  who  have  pursued 
it,  who  have  suffered  for  it,  who  have  been  exalted  by  it, 
they  have  only  to  pass  out  their  truth  to  the  world  to  re 
make  the  universe.  But  the  world  is  made  over  only  when 
the  common  mind  sees  the  truth,  and  the  common  heart 
feels  it.  So  the  history  of  reform  is  a  history  of  disappoint 
ment.  The  reform  works,  of  course.  But  in  working  it 
does  only  the  one  little  trick  it  is  intended  to  do,  and  the 
long  chain  of  incidental  blessings  which  should  follow,  which 
the  reformers  feel  must  inevitably  follow,  wait  for  other 
icformers  to  bring  them  into  being.  So  there  is  always 


SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  525 

plenty  of  work  for  the  social  tinker,  and  no  one  man  ever 
built  a  millennium.  For  God  is  ever  jealous  for  our  prog 
eny,  and  leaves  an  unfinished  job  always  on  the  work  bench 
of  the  world. 

Grant  Adams  believed  that  he  had  a  mission  to  bring 
labor  into  its  own.  The  coming  of  the  Democracy  of  Labor 
was  a  real  democracy  to  him — no  mere  shibboleth.  And  as 
he  rode  through  the  rows  of  wooden  tenements,  where  he 
knew  men  and  women  were  being  crushed  by  the  great  indus 
trial  machine,  he  thought  of  the  tents  in  the  fields;  of  the 
women  and  children  and  of  the  old  and  the  sick  going  out 
there  to  labor  through  the  day  to  piece  out  the  family  wage 
and  secure  economic  independence  with  wholesome,  self- 
respecting  work.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  when  he  could  bring 
the  conditions  that  were  starting  in  Harvey,  to  every  great 
industrial  center,  one  great  job  in  the  world  would  be  done 
forever. 

So  he  drummed  his  iron  claw  on  the  seat  before  him,  put 
his  hard  hand  upon  his  rough  face,  and  smiled  in  the  joy 
of  his  high  faith. 

Dick  Bowman  and  his  boy  left  Grant  at  the  car.  He 
waved  his  claw  at  little  Ben  when  they  parted,  and  sighed 
as  he  saw  the  little  fellow  scampering  to  shaft  No.  3  of  the 
Wahoo  Fuel  Company's  mines.  There  Grant  lost  sight  of 
the  child,  and  went  to  his  work.  In  two  hours  he  and  Violet 
Hogan  had  cleaned  off  his  desk.  He  had  promised  the 
Wahoo  Fuel  Company  to  see  that  the  work  of  constructing 
the  trocha  was  started  that  afternoon,  and  when  Violet  had 
telephoned  to  Mechanics'  Hall,  Grant  and  a  group  of  men 
went  to  the  mines  to  begin  on  the  trocha.  They  passed  down 
the  switch  into  the  yards,  and  Grant  heard  a  brakeman  say : 

"That  Frisco  car  there  has  a  broken  brake — watch  out  for 
her." 

And  a  switchman  reply : 

1  'Yes— I  know  it.  I  tried  to  get  the  yardmaster  not  to 
send  her  down.  But  we'll  do  what  we  can." 

The  brakeman  on  the  car  signaled  for  the  engineer  to 
pull  the  other  cars  away,  and  leave  the  Frisco  car  at  the  top 
of  a  slight  grade,  to  be  shoved  down  by  the  men  when  an 
other  car  was  needed  at  the  loading  chute.  Grant  walked 


526  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

toward  the  loading  chute,  and  a  roar  from  the  falling  coal 
filled  his  ears.  He  saw  little  Ben  under  a  car  throwing 
back  the  coal  falling  from  the  faulty  chute  on  to  the  ground. 

Through  the  roar  Grant  heard  a  yell  as  from  a  man  in 
terror.  He  looked  back  of  him  and  saw  the  Frisco  car 
coming  down  the  grade  as  if  shot  from  a  monster  catapult ! 

"The  boy — the  boy — !"  he  heard  the  man  on  the  car 
shriek.  He  tried  to  clamber  over  the  coal  to  the  edge  of  the 
car,  but  before  he  could  reach  the  side,  the  Frisco  car  had 
hit  the  loading  car  a  terrific  blow,  sending  it  a  car  length 
down  the  track. 

One  horrible  scream  was  all  they  heard  from  little  Ben. 
Grant  was  at  his  side  in  a  moment.  There,  stuck  to  the  rail, 
were  two  little  legs  and  an  arm.  Grant  stooped,  picked  up 
the  little  body,  pulled  it  loose  from  the  tracks,  and  carried 
it,  running,  to  the  company  hospital. 

As  Grant  ran,  tears  fell  in  the  little,  coal-stained  face,  and 
made  white  splotches  on  the  child's  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

IN  WHICH   LIDA   BOWMAN   CONSIDERS    HER   UNIVERSE   AND   TOM 
VAN   DORN   WINS   ANOTHER  VICTORY 

FOR  a  long  and  weary  night  and  a  day  of  balancing 
doubt,  and  another  dull  night,  little  Ben  Bowman 
lay  limp  and  crumpled  on  his  cot — a  broken  lump  of 
clay  hardly  more  than  animate.  Lida  Bowman,  his  mother, 
all  that  time  sat  in  the  hall  of  the  hospital  outside  the  door 
of  his  room.  The  stream  of  sorrow  that  winds  through  a 
hospital  passed  before  her  unheeded.  Her  husband  came, 
sat  with  her  silently  for  a  while,  went,  and  came  again,  many 
times.  But  she  did  not  go.  In  the  morning  of  the  second 
day  as  she  stood  peering  through  the  door  crack  at  the  child 
she  saw  his  little  body  move  in  a  deep  sigh,  and  saw  his  black 
eyes  open  for  a  second  and  close  as  he  smiled.  Dr.  Nesbit, 
who  stood  beside  her,  grasped  her  hand  and  led  her  away. 

"I  think  the  worst  is  over,  Lida,"  he  said,  and  held  her 
hand  as  they  walked  down  the  hall.  He  sat  with  her  in 
the  waiting  room,  into  which  the  earliest  tide  of  visitors 
had  not  begun  to  flow,  and  promised  her  that  if  the  child 
continued  to  rally  from  the  shock,  she  might  stand  by  his 
bed  at  noon.  Then  for  the  first  time  she  wept.  He  stood  by 
the  window  looking  out  at  the  great  pillars  of  smoke  that  were 
smudging  the  dawn,  at  the  smelter  fumes  that  were  staining 
the  sky,  at  the  hurrying  crowd  of  men  arid  women  and 
children  going  into  the  mines,  the  mills,  the  shops,  hurrying 
to  work  with  the  prod  of  fear  ever  in  their  backs — fear  of 
the  disgrace  of  want,  fear  of  the  shame  of  beggary,  fear  to 
hear  some  loved  one  ask  for  food  or  warmth  or  shelter  and 
to  have  it  not.  When  the  great  motherly  body  had  ceased 
its  paroxysms,  he  went  to  Mrs.  Bowman  and  touched  her 
shoulder. 

"Lida,"  he  said,  "it  isn't  much — but  I'm  glad  of  one 

527 


528  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

thing.  My  bill  is  on  the  statutes  to  give  people  who  are 
hurt,  as  Ben  was,  their  money  from  the  company  without 
going  to  law  and  dividing  with  the  lawyers.  It  is  on  the 
books  good  and  tight;  referred  to  the  people  and  approved 
by  them  and  ground  clear  through  the  state  supreme  court 
and  sustained.  It  isn't  much,  Lida — Heaven  knows  that — 
but  little  Ben  will  get  his  money  without  haggling  and  that 
money  will  help  to  start  him  in  life. ' ' 

She  turned  a  tear-swollen  face  to  him,  but  again  her 
grief  overcame  her.  He  stood  with  one  wrinkled  hand  upon 
her  broad  shoulder,  and  with  the  other  patted  her  coarse 
hair.  When  she  looked  up  at  him,  again  he  said  gently: 

"I  know,  Lida,  that  money  isn't  what  you  mothers  want — 
but—" 

' 'But  we've  got  to  think  of  it,  Doc  Jim — that's  one  of  the 
curses  of  poverty,  but,  oh,  money! — It  won't  bring  them 
back  strong  and  whole — who  leave  us  to  go  to  work,  and 
come  back  all  torn  and  mashed." 

She  sat  choking  down  the  sobs  that  came  surging  up  from 
her  great  bosom,  and  weaving  to  and  fro  as  she  fought  back 
her  tears.  The  Doctor  sat  beside  her  and  took  her  red  un 
shapely  hands  unadorned  except  by  the  thin  gold  wedding 
ring  that  she  had  worn  in  toil  for  over  thirty  years. 

"Lida,  sometimes  I  think  only  God  and  the  doctors  know 
how  heavy  women's  loads  are,"  said  the  Doctor. 

" Ain't  that  so — Doc  Jim!"  she  cried.  "Ain't  that  the 
truth?  I've  had  a  long  time  to  think  these  two  days  and 
nights — and  I  've  thought  it  all  over  and  all  out.  Here  I  am 
nearly  fifty  and  eight  times  you  and  I  have  fought  it  out 
with  death  and  brought  life  into  this  world.  I'm  strong 
— I  don't  mind  that.  I  joyed  at  their  coming,  and  made  the 
others  edge  over  at  the  table,  and  snuggle  up  in  the  bed,  and 
we've  been  happy.  Even  the  three  that  are  dead — I'm 
glad  they  came ;  I  'm  thankful  for  'em.  And  Dick  he 's  been 
so  proud  of  each  one,  and  cuddled  it,  and  muched  it — " 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  sobbed,  "Oh,  little  Ben — little 
Ben,  how  pappy  made  over  his  hair — he  was  born  with  hair 
— don't  you  mind,  Doc  Jim?" 

The  Doctor  laughed  and  looked  into  the  past  as  he  piped, 
"Curliest  headed  little  tyke,  and  don't  you  remember  Laura 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE      529 

gave  him  Lila's  baby  things  she'd  saved  for  all  those  years?" 
"Yes,  Doc  Jim — don't  I?  God  knows,  Doc,  she's  been  a 
mother  to  the  whole  Valley — when  I  got  up  I  found  I  was 
the  twentieth  woman  up  and  down  the  Valley  she'd  given 
Lila's  little  things  to — just  to  save  our  pride  when  she 
thought  we  would  not  take  'em  any  other  way.  Don't  I  know 
— all  about  it — and  she's  still  doing  it — God  bless  her,  and 
she's  been  here  every  morning,  noon  and  night  since — since 
— she  came  with  a  little  beef  tea,  or  some  of  her  own  wine, 
or  a  plate  of  hot  toast  in  her  basket — that  she  made  me  eat. 
Why,  if  it  wasn't  for  her  and  Henry  and  Violet  and  Grant 
— what  would  God's  poor  in  this  Valley  do  in  trouble — I 
sure  dunno." 

There  came  an  unsteady  minute,  when  the  Doctor  stroked 
her  hand  and  piped,  "Well,  Lida — you  folks  in  the  Valley 
don't  get  half  the  fun  out  of  it  that  the  others  get.  It's  pie 
for  them." 

The  woman  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  sighed  deeply. 
"Doc  Jim,"  she  began,  "eight  times  I've  brought  life  into 
this  world.  The  three  that  went,  went  because  we  were 
poor — because  we  couldn't  buy  life  for  'em.  They  went  into 
the  mills  and  the  mines  with  Dick's  muscle.  One  is  at  home, 
waiting  till  the  wheels  get  hungry  for  her.  Four  I've  fed 
into  the  mills  that  grind  up  the  meat  we  mothers  make." 
She  stared  at  him  wildly  and  cried  * '  0  God — God,  Doc  Jim — 
what  justice  is  there  in  it?  I've  been  a  kind  of  brood-mare 
bearing  burden  carriers  for  Dan  Sands,  who  has  sold  my 
blood  like  cheese  in  his  market.  My  mother  sent  three  boys 
to  the  war  who  never  came  back  and  I've  heard  her  cry 
and  thank  God  He'd  let  her.  But  my  flesh  and  blood — the 
little  ones  that  Dick  and  me  have  coddled  and  petted  and 
babied — they've  been  fed  into  the  wheels  to  make  profits — 
profits  for  idlers  to  squander — profits  to  lure  women  to 
shame  and  men  to  death.  That's  what  I've  been  giving  my 
body  and  soul  for,  Doc  Jim.  Little  Ben  up  there  has  given 
his  legs  and  his  arms — oh,  those  soft  little  arms  and  the  cun 
ning  little  legs  I  used  to  kiss — for  what?  I'll  tell  you — 
he's  given  them  so  that  by  saving  a  day's  work  repairing  a 
car,  some  straw  boss  could  make  a  showing  to  a  superinten 
dent,  and  the  superintendent  could  make  a  record  for  econ- 


530  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

omy  to  a  president,  and  a  president  could  increase  dividends 
— dividends  to  be  spent  by  idlers.  And  idleness  makes 
drunkards  who  make  harlots  who  make  hell — and  all  my  lit 
tle  boy's  arms  and  legs  will  go  for  is  for  sin  and  shame." 

The  Doctor  returned  to  the  window  and  she  cried  bitterly : 
"Oh,  you  know  that's  the  truth — the  God's  truth,  Doc  Jim. 
Where's  my  Jean?  She  went  into  the  glass  factory — 
worked  twelve  hours  a  day  on  a  job  that  would  have  crip 
pled  her  for  life  in  another  year,  and  then  went  away  with 
that  Austrian  blower — and  when  he  threw  her  out,  she  was 
ashamed  to  write — and  for  a  long  time  now  I've  read  the 
city  papers  of  them  women  who  kill  them  selves — hoping  to 
find  she  was  dead.  And  Mugs — you  know  what  South  Har 
vey's  made  of  him — " 

She  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  Standing  beside  him 
she  cried: 

"I  tell  you,  Doc  Jim — I  hate  it,"  She  pointed  to  the 
great  black  mills  and  mine  shafts  and  the  piles  of  brick 
and  lumber  and  sheet  iron  that  stretched  before  her  for^  a 
mile.  "I  hate  it,  and  I'm  going  to  hit  it  once  before  I  die. 
Don't  talk  peace  to  me.  I've  got  a  right  to  hit  it  and  hit  it 
hard — and  if  my  time  ever  conies — " 

A  visitor  was  shown  into  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Bowman 
ceased  speaking.  She  was  calm  when  the  Doctor  left  her 
arid  at  noon  she  stood  beside  the  cot,  and  saw  little  Ben 
smile  at  her.  Then  she  went  away  in  tears.  As  she  passed 
out  of  the  door  of  the  hospital  into  the  street,  she  met  Grant 
Adams  coming  in  to  inquire  about  little  Ben. 

"He  knows  me  now,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  he'll  get  well 
— without  leg-s — and  with  only  one  arm — I've  seen  them  on 
the  street  selling  pencils— oh,  little  Ben!"  she  cried.  Then 
she  turned  on  Grant  in  anger.  "Grant  Adams — go  on  with 
your  revolution.  I'm  for  it — and  the  quicker  the  better- 
but  don't  come  around  talking  peace  to  me.  Us  mothers 
want  to  fight." 

"Fighting,  in  the  long  run,  will  do  no  good,  Mrs.  Bow 
man,"  said  Grant.  "It  will  hurt  the  cause. 

"But  it  will  do  us  good,"  she  answered. 

"Force  against  force  and  we  lose— they  have  the  guns, 
he  persisted. 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE      531 

"Well,  I'd  rather  feed  my  babies  to  good  merciful  guns 
than  to  wheels,"  she  replied,  and  then  softened  as  she  took 
his  hand. 

"I  guess  I'm  mad  to-day,  Grant.  Go  on  up.  Maybe 
they'll  let  you  look  at  him.  He  smiled  at  me — just  as  he 
did  when  Doctor  Nesbit  showed  him  to  me  the  day  he  was 
born/' 

She  kept  back  her  tears  with  an  effort,  and  added,  "Only 
the  Doc  tried  to  tell  me  that  babies  don't  smile.  But  I  know 
better,  Ben  smiled — just  like  the  one  to-day." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Bowman,"  rejoined  Grant,  "there's  one  com 
fort.  Dr.  Nesbit 's  law  makes  it  possible  for  you  to  get  your 
damages  without  going  to  law  and  dividing  with  some  lawyer. 
However  the  Doctor  and  I  may  differ — we  down  here  in  the 
mines  and  mills  must  thank  him  for  that." 

"Oh,  Doc  Jim's  all  right,  Grant,"  answered  Mrs.  Bow 
man,  relapsing  into  her  lifetime  silence. 

It  was  nearly  three  months  later  and  spring  was  at  its 
full,  before  they  discharged  little  Ben  from  the  hospital. 
But  the  last  fortnight  of  his  stay  they  had  let  him  visit  out 
side  the  hospital  for  a  few  hours  daily.  And  to  the  joy  of 
a  great  crowd  in  the  Hot  Dog  saloon,  he  sat  on  the  bar  and 
sang  his  little  heart  out.  They  took  him  down  to  Belgian 
hall  at  noon,  and  he  sang  the  "Marseillaise"  to  the  crowd 
that  gathered  there.  In  the  hospital,  wherever  they  would 
let  him,  after  he  had  visited  the  Hot  Dog,  he  sang — sang 
in  the  big  ward  where  he  sat  by  a  window,  sang  in  the 
corridors,  whenever  the  patients  could  hear  him,  and  sang 
Gospel  hymns  in  his  cot  at  bedtime. 

He  was  an  odd  little  bundle,  that  Henry  Fenn  carried  into 
the  offices  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  Fuel  Company  one  after 
noon  in  early  June,  with  Dick  Bowman  following  proudly,  as 
they  made  the  proof  of  the  claim  for  compensation  for  the 
accident.  The  people  in  the  offices  were  kind  and  tenderly 
polite  to  the  little  fellow.  Henry  saw  that  all  the  papers 
were  properly  made  out,  and  the  clerk  in  the  office  told  Dick 
and  Henry  to  call  for  the  check  next  day  but  one — which 
was  pay  day. 

So  they  carried  little  Ben  away  and  Mrs.  Bowman — 
though  it  was  barely  five  o'clock — began  fixing  Ben  up  for 


532  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

the  wedding-  of  Jasper  Adams  and  Ruth  Morton.  It  was 
the  first  public  appearance  as  a  singer  that  little  Ben  had 
made  in  Harvey.  His  appearance  was  due  largely  to  the 
notion  of  Captain  Morton,  supported  and  abetted  by  George 
Brotherton.  So  little  Ben  Bowman  was  smuggled  behind 
a  palm  in  the  choir  loft  and  permitted  to  sing  "0  Promise 
Me"  during  the  services. 

"Not,"  explained  the  Captain  to  Mr.  Brotherton  in  the 
barn  where  he  was  smoking,  the  afternoon  before  the  cere 
mony,  "not  that  I  cared  a  whoop  in  Texas  about  Ben — 
though  'y  gory,  the  boy  sings  like  a  canary;  but  it  was  the 
only  excuse  I  could  find  for  slipping  a  hundred  dollars  to 
the  Bowman  family,  without  making  Dick  and  Lida  think  it 
was  charity — eh?" 

The  wedding  made  a  dull  evening  for  Grant.  He  carried 
little  Ben  in  his  arms  out  of  the  crowd  at  the  church,  and 
gathering  up  the  Bowmans  and  his  father,  went  home  with 
out  stopping  for  the  reception  or  for  the  dance  or  for  any 
of  the  subsidiary  attractions  of  the  ceremony  which  Jasper 
and  the  Captain,  each  delighting  in  tableaux  and  parades, 
had  arranged  for.  Little  Ben's  arm  was  clinging  to  Grant's 
neck  as  he  piloted  his  party  to  the  street  car.  they  passed 
the  Van  Dorn  house  and  saw  old  Daniel  Sands  come  tottering 
down  the  walk  from  the  Van  Dorn  home,  between  Ahab 
Wright  and  young  Joe  Calvin.  Daniel  Sands  stumbled  as 
he  shuffled  past  Amos  Adams  and  Amos  put  out  an  arm 
to  catch  Daniel.  He  regained  his  balance  and  without  recog 
nizing  who  had  helped  him,  cackled : 

"Tom's  a  man  of  his  word,  boys — when  he  promises — 
that  settles  it.  Tom  never  lies."  And  his  senile  voice 
shrilled  in  a  laugh.  Then  the  old  banker  recognized  Amos 
Adams  with  Grant  in  the  moonlight.  "Hi,  old  spook 
chaser,"  he  chirped  feebly,  still  holding  to  Amos  Adams's 
arm;  "sorry  I  couldn't  get  to  my  nevvy's  wedding — Morty 
went — Morty 's  our  social  man,"  he  laughed  again.  "But  I 
had  some  other  important  matters — business — very  impor 
tant  business." 

The  Sands'  party  was  moving  toward  the  Sands7  limousine, 
which  stood  purring  at  the  curb.  Ahab  Wright  and  young 
Joe  Calvin  boosted  the  trembling  old  man  into  the  car,  and 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE     533 

Ahab  Wright  slipped  back  and  returned  to  the  wedding  re 
ception,  from  which  he  had  stolen  away.  Ahab  was  ob 
viously  embarrassed  at  being  caught  in  the  conference  with 
Sands  and  Van  Dorn,  but  Daniel  Sands  as  he  climbed  into 
the  car,  sinking  cautiously  among  the  cushions  and  being 
swathed  in  robes  by  the  chauffeur,  was  garrulous.  He  kept 
carping  at  Amos  Adams  who  stood  by  with  his  son  and  the 
Bowmans,  waiting  for  the  street  car. 

"Lost  your  only  sane  son,  Amos,"  he  said.  "The  fool 
takes  after  you,  and  the  fiddler  after  his  mother — but  Jap 
— he's  real  Sands — he's  like  me." 

He  laughed  at  his  joke,  and  when  his  breath  came  back  he 
went  on. 

"There's  Morty— he's  like  both  the  fool  and  the  fiddler— 
both  the  fool  and  the  fiddler — and  not  a  bit  like  me." 

" Morty  isn't  very  well,  Daniel,"  said  Amos  Adams,  ig 
noring  all  that  the  old  man  had  said.  "Don't  you  think, 
Daniel,  you're  letting  that  disease  get  too  deep  a  hold  on 
Morty?  With  all  your  money,  Dan,  I  think  you'd — " 

"With  all  my  money — with  all  my  money,  Amos,"  cried 
the  old  man,  shaking  his  hands,  "with  all  my  money — I  can 
just  stand  and  wait.  Amos — he's  a  fool,  I  know — but  he's 
the  only  boy  I  've  got — the  only  boy.  And  with  all  my  money 
— what  good  will  it  do  me?  Anne  won't  have  it — and 
Morty 's  all  I've  got  and  he's  going  before  I  do.  Amos — 
Amos — tell  me,  Amos — what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  of 
God?  Haven't  I  done  as  I  ort?  Why  is  this  put  on  me?" 
He  sat  panting  and  blinking  and  shaking  his  ever-denying, 
palsied  head.  Amos  did  not  reply.  The  chauffeur  was  tak 
ing  his  seat  in  the  car.  "Ain't  I  paid  my  share  in  the 
church?  Ain't  I  give  parks  to  the  city?  Ain't  I  had  fam 
ily  prayers  for  fifty  years?  Ain't  I  been  a  praying  mem 
ber  all  my  life  nearly?  Ain't  I  supported  missions?, 
Why,"  he  panted,  "is  it  put  on  me  to  die  without  a  son  to 
bear  my  name  and  take  care  of  my  property  ?  I  made  over 
two  millions  to  him  the  other  day.  But  why,  Amos,"  the  old 
man's  voice  was  broken  and  he  whimpered,  "has  the  Lord 
sent  this  to  Morty?" 

Amos  did  not  reply,  but  the  big  voice  of  Grant  spoke  very 
softly:  "Uncle  Dan,  Morty 's  got  tuberculosis — you  know 


534  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

that.  Tuberculosis  has  made  you  twenty  per  cent,  interest 
for  twenty  years — those  hothouses  for  consumption  of  yours 
in  the  Valley.  But  it's  cost  the  poor  scores  and  scores  of 
lives.  Morty  has  it, ' '  Grant 's  voice  rose  solemnly.  ' '  Venge 
ance  is  mine  sayeth  the  Lord,  I  will  repay.  You've  got  your 
interest,  and  the  Lord  has  taken  his  toll." 

The  old  man  showed  his  colorless  gums  as  he  opened  a 
raging  mouth. 

''You— you— eh,  you  blasphemer!"  He  shook  as  with  a 
chiH  and  screamed,  "But  we've  got  you  now — we'll  fix  you  !" 

The  car  for  Harvey  came,  and  the  Adamses  climbed  in. 

Amos  Adams,  sitting  on  the  hard  seat  of  the  street  car 
looking  into  the  moonlight,  considered  seriously  his  brother- 
in-law,  and  his  low  estate.  That  he  had  to  be  helped  into 
his  limousine,  that  he  had  to  be  wrapped  up  like  a  baby, 
that  his  head  was  palsied  and  his  hands  fluttering,  seemed 
strange  and  rather  inexplicable  to  Amos.  He  counted  Dan 
iel  a  young  man,  four  years  his  junior,  barely  seventy-nine ; 
a  man  who  should  be  in  his  prime.  Amos  did  "not  reali/e  that 
his  legs  had  been  kept  supple  by  climbing  on  and  off  a  high 
printer's  stool  hourly  for  fifty  years,  and  that  his  body  had 
buffeted  the  winds  of  the  world  unprotected  all  those  years 
and  had  kept  fit.  But  Daniel  Sands 's  sad  case  seemed 
pathetic  to  the  elder  Adams  and  he  cut  into  some  rising 
stream  of  conversation  from  Grant  and  the  Bowmans  in 
advertently  with:  "Poor  Daniel — Morty  doomed,  and  Dan 
iel  himself  looking  like  the  breaking  up  of  a  hard  winter — 
poor  Daniel !  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  got  the  hang  of  things 
in  this  world ;  he  can't  seem  to  get  on  some  way.  I'm  sorry 
for  Daniel,  Grant;  he  might  have  made  quite  a  man  if  he'd 
not  been  fooled  by  money." 

Clearly  Amos  was  meditating  aloud ;  no  one  replied  and  the 
talk  flowed  on.  But  the  old  man  looked  into  the  moonlight 
and  dreamed  dreams. 

The  next  day  was  Grant's  day  at  his  carpenter's  bench, 
and  when  he  came  to  his  office  with  his  kit  in  his  hands  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  found  Violet  Hogan  waiting 
with  the  letters  he  was  to  sign,  and  with  the  mail  opened 
and  sorted.  As  he  was  signing  his  letters  Violet  gave  him 
the  news  of  the  day : 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE      535 

''Dick  Bowman  ran  in  at  noon  and  asked  me  to  see  if  I 
could  get  Dr.  Nesbit  and  George  Brotherton  and  Henry 
Fenn  down  here  this  evening  to  talk  over  his  investment  of 
little  Ben's  money.  The  check  will  come  to-morrow." 
Grant  looked  up  from  his  desk,  but  before  he  could  ask  a 
question  Violet  answered :  *  *  They  '11  be  down  at  eight.  The 
Doctor  is  that  proud !  And  Mr.  Brotherton  is  cutting  lodge 
— the  Shriners,  themselves — to  come  down.'7 

It  was  a  grave  and  solemn  council  that  sat  by  Grant 
Adams's  desk  that  evening  discussing  the  disposal  of  little 
Ben's  five  thousand.  Excepting  Mr.  Brotherton,  no  one 
there  had  ever  handled  that  much  money  at  one  time.  For 
though  the  Doctor  was  a  man  of  affairs  the  money  he  han 
dled  in  politics  came  easy  and  went  easy,  and  the  money 
he  earned  Mrs.  Nesbit  always  had  invested  for  him.  So  he 
arid  Lid  a  Bowman  sat  rather  apart  while  Dick  and  Brother- 
ton  considered  the  safety  of  bonds  and  mortgages  and  time 
deposits  and  other  staple  methods  of  investing  the  vast  sum 
which  was  about  to  be  paid  to  them  for  Ben's  accident. 
They  also  considered  plans  for  his  education — whether  he 
should  learn  telegraphy  or  should  cultivate  his  voice,  or 
go  to  college  or  what  not.  In  this  part  of  the  council  the 
Doctor  took  a  hand.  But  Lida  Bowman  kept  her  wonted 
silence.  The  money  could  not  take  the  bitterness  from  her 
loss;  though  it  did  relieve  her  despair.  While  they  talked, 
as  a  mere  incident  of  the  conversation,  some  one  spoke  of 
having  seen  Joe  Calvin  come  down  to  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Com 
pany's  offices  that  day  in  his  automobile.  Doctor  Nesbit 
recalled  having  seen  Calvin  conferring  with  Tom  Van  Dorn 
and  Daniel  Sands  in  Van  Dorn's  office  that  afternoon.  Then 
Dick  Bowman  craning  his  neck  asked  for  the  third  time 
when  Henry  Fenn  would  show  up;  and  for  the  third  time 
it  was  explained  that  Henry  had  taken  the  Hogan  children 
to  the  High  School  building  in  Harvey  to  behold  the  spec 
tacle  of  Janice  Hogan  graduating  from  the  eighth  grade  into 
the  High  School.  Then  Dick  explained: 

"Well,  I  just  thought  Henry  would  know  about  this  paper 
I  got  to-day  from  the  constable.  It's  a  legal  document,  and 
probably  has  something  to  do  with  getting  Benny's  money 
or  something.  I  couldn't  make  it  out  so  I  thought  I  'd  just  let 


536  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Henry  figure  on  it  and  tell  me  what  to  do."  And  when  a 
few  minutes  later  Fenn  came  in,  with  a  sense  of  duty  to  the 
Hogans  well  done,  Dick  handed  Fenn  the  paper  and  asked 
with  all  the  assurance  of  a  man  who  expects  the  reassurance 
of  an  affirmative  answer: 

"Well,  Henry — she's  all  right,  ain't  she?  Just  some  legal 
formality  to  go  through,  I  suppose  ? ' ' 

Henry  Fenn  took  the  document  from  Bowman's  hand. 
Henry  stood  under  the  electric,  read  it  and  sat  thinking  for 
a  few  seconds,  with  widely  furious  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "they've  played  their  trump,  boys.  Doe 
Jim — your  law's  been  attacked  in  the  federal  court — under 
Tom  Van  Dorn — damn  him!" 

The  group  barked  a  common  question  in  many  voices. 
Fenn  replied:  "As  I  make  it  out,  they  got  a  New  York 
stockholder  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  Fuel  Company  to  ask  for  an 
injunction  against  paying  little  Ben  his  money  to-morrow, 
and  the  temporary  injunction  has  been  granted  with  the 
hearing  set  for  June  16." 

"And  won't  they  pay  us  without  a  suit?"  asked  Bowman. 
' '  Why,  I  don 't  see  how  that  can  be — they  've  been  paying  for 
accidents  for  a  year  now." 

"Why,  the  law's  through  all  the  courts!"  queried  Broth- 
erton. 

"The  state  courts — yes,"  answered  Fenn,  "but  they  didn't 
own  the  federal  court  until  they  got  Tom  in." 

Bowman's  jaw  began  to  tremble.  His  Adam's  apple 
bobbed  like  a  cork,  and  no  one  spoke.  Finally  Dr.  Nesbit 
spoke  in  his  high-keyed  voice :  "I  presume  legal  verbiage  is 
all  they  talk  in  hell!"  and  sat  pondering. 

"Is  there  no  way  to  beat  it?"  asked  Broth erton. 

"Not  in  this  court,  George,"  replied  Fenn,  "that's  why 
they  brought  suit  in  this  court." 

1  *  That  means  a  long  fight — a  big  law  suit,  Henry  ? ' '  asked 
Bowman. 

"Unless  they  compromise  or  wear  you  out,"  replied  the 
lawyer. 

"And  can't  a  jury  decide?" 

"No — it's  an  injunction.  It's  up  to  the  court,  and  the 
court  is  Tom  Van  Dorn, ' '  said  Fenn. 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE     537 

Then  Dick  Bowman  spoke:  "And  there  goes  little  Ben's 
school  and  a  chance  to  make  something  out  of  what's  left  of 
him.  Why,  it  don't  look  right  when  the  legislature's  passed 
it,  and  the  people's  confirmed  it  and  nine  lawyers  in  all  the 
state  courts  have  said  it's  law, — for  the  attorney  for  the 
company  holding  a  job  as  judge  to  turn  over  all  them  forms 
of  law.  Can 't  we  do  something  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  spoke  the  big  voice  of  Grant  Adams  for  the  first 
time  since  Fenn  made  his  announcement,  "we  can  strike — 
that's  one  thing  we  can  do.  Why,"  he  continued,  full  of 
emotion,  "I  could  no  more  hold  those  men  down  there  against 
a  strike  when  they  hear  this  than  I  could  fly.  They'll  have 
to  fight  for  this  right,  gentlemen  ! ' ' 

"Be  calm  now,  Grant,"  piped  the  Doctor;  "don't  go  off 
half  cocked.' ' 

Grant's  eyes  flared — his  nose  dilated  and  the  muscles 
of  his  heavy  jaw  worked  and  knotted.  He  answered  in  a 
harsh  voice: 

"Oh,  I'll  be  calm  all  right,  Doctor.  I'm  going  down  in 
the  morning  and  plead  for  peace.  But  I  know  my  people. 
I  can't  hold  'em." 

Those  in  the  room  stood  for  a  moment  in  dazed  silence; 
then  the  Doctor  and  Brotherton,  realizing  the  importance  of 
further  discussion  that  night,  soon  withdrew  from  the  room, 
leaving  Dick  voluble  in  his  grief  and  Lida,  his  wife,  stony 
and  speechless  beside  him.  She  shook  no  sympathizing 
hand,  not  even  Grant 's,  as  the  Bowmans  left  for  home.  But 
she  climbed  out  of  the  chair  and  down  the  stairs  on  tired, 
heavy  feet. 

In  the  morning  there  was  turmoil  in  the  Valley.  In  the 
Times  Jared  Thurston,  with  the  fatuous  blundering  which 
characterizes  all  editors  of  papers  like  his,  printed  the  news 
that  little  Ben  Bowman  would  be  denied  his  rights,  as  a  glor 
ious  victory  over  the  reformers.  In  an  editorial,  written  in 
old  Joe  Calvin's  best  style,  the  community  was  congratu 
lated  upon  having  one  judge  at  last  who  would  put  an  end 
to  the  socialistic  foolishness  that  had  been  written  by  dema 
gogues  on  the  state  statute  books,  and  hinting  rather 'broadly 
that  the  social  labor  program  adopted  by  the  people  at  the 
last  election  through  the  direct  vote  would  go  the  way  of  the 


538  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

fool  statute  under  which  the  Bowman  lad  hoped  to  cheat  the 
courts  of  due  process  of  law. 

In  vain  did  Grant  Adauis  try  to  rally  carpenters  to  the 
trocha.  He  pleaded  with  the  men  to  raise  a  special  fund 
to  take  little  Ben's  case  through  the  federal  courts;  but  he 
failed. 

The  Wahoo  Valley  saw  in  the  case  of  little  Ben  Bowman 
the  drama  of  greed  throttling  poverty,  all  set  forth  in  stark, 
grim  terms  that  no  one  could  question.  The  story  appealed 
directly  to  the  passions  of  the  Valley  and  the  Valley's  voice 
rose  in  the  demand  to  resort  to  its  last  weapon  of  defense. 
The  workers  felt  that  they  must  strike  or  forfeit  their  self- 
respect.  And  day  by  day  the  Times,  gloating  at  the  coining 
downfall  in  Van  Dorn's  program  of  labor-repression,  threw 
oil  on  the  flaming  passions  of  the  Valley,  so  labor  raged 
and  went  white  hot.  The  council  of  the  Wahoo  Valley 
Trades  Workers  came  together  to  vote  on  the  strike.  Every 
unit  of  seven  was  asked  to  meet  and  vote.  Grant  sat  in  his 
office  with  the  executive  committee  a  day  and  a  night  count 
ing  the  slowly  returning  votes.  Grant  had  influence  enough 
to  make  them  declare  emphatically  for  a  peaceful  strike. 
But  the  voice  of  the  Valley  was  for  a  strike.  The  spring  was 
at  its  full.  The  little  garden  plots  were  blooming.  The  men 
felt  confident.  A  conference  of  the  officials  of  the  council 
was  called  to  formulate  the  demands.  Grant  managed  to 
put  off  the  strike  until  the  hearing  on  the  temporary  injunc 
tion,  June  16,  was  held.  But  the  men  drew  up  their  de 
mands  and  were  ready  for  the  court  decision  which  they  felt 
would  be  finally  against  them. 

The  Wahoo  Valley  was  stirred  deeply  by  the  premonitions 
of  the  coming  strike.  It  was  proud  of  its  record  for  in 
dustrial  peace,  and  the  prospect  of  war  in  the  Valley  over 
turned  all  its  traditions. 

Market  Street  had  its  profound  reaction,  too.  Market 
Street  and  the  Valley,  each  in  its  own  way,  felt  the  dreaded 
turmoil  coming,  knew  what  commercial  disaster  the  struggle 
meant,  but  Market  Street  was  timid  and  powerless  and  panic- 
stricken.  Yet  life  went  on.  In  the  Valley  there  were  births 
and  deaths  and  marriages,  and  on  the  hill  in  Harvey,  Mrs. 
Bedelia  Nesbit  was  working  out  her  plans  to  make  over 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE      539 

the  Nesbit  house,  while  Lila,  her  granddaughter,  was  flutter 
ing  about  in  the  seventh  Heaven,  for  she  was  living  under 
the  same  sky  and  sun  and  stars  that  bent  over  Kenyon,  her 
lover,  home  from  Boston  for  the  Morton-Adams  wedding. 
He  might  be  hailed  as  a  passing  ship  once  or  twice  a  day,  if 
she  managed  to  time  her  visits  to  Market  Street  properly,  or 
he  might  be  seen  from  the  east  veranda  of  her  home  at  the 
proper  hour,  and  there  was  a  throb  of  joy  that  blotted  out 
all  the  rest  of  the  pale  world.  There  was  one  time;  two 
times  indeed  they  were,  and  a  hope  of  a  third,  when  slipping 
out  from  under  the  shadow  of  her  grandmother's  belligerent 
plumes,  Lila  had  known  the  actual  fleeting  touch  of  hands; 
the  actual  feasting  of  eyes  and  the  quick  rapture  of  meeting 
lips  at  a  tryst.  And  when  Mrs.  Nesbit  left  for  Minneapolis 
to  consult  an  architect,  and  to  be  gone  two  weeks — Harvey 
and  the  Valley  and  the  strike  slipped  so  far  below  the  skyline 
of  the  two  lovers  that  they  were  scarcely  aware  that  such 
things  were  in  the  universe. 

Kenyon  could  not  see  even  the  grim  cast  of  decision  man 
tling  Grant's  face.  Day  by  day,  while  the  votes  assembled 
which  ordered  the  strike,  the  deep  abiding  purpose  of  Grant 
Adams's  soul  rose  and  stood  ready  to  master  him.  He  and 
the  men  seemed  to  be  coming  to  their  decision  together.  As 
the  votes  indicated  by  a  growing  majority  their  determina 
tion,  in  a  score  of  ways  Grant  made  it  evident  to  those  about 
him,  that  for  him  time  had  fruited ;  the  day  was  ready  and  the 
hour  at  hand  for  his  life  plans  to  unfold.  Those  nearest 
him  knew  that  the  season  of  debate  for  Grant  Adams  had 
passed.  He  was  like  one  whose  sails  of  destiny  are  set  and 
who  longs  to  put  out  into  the  deep  and  let  down  his  nets. 
So  he  passed  the  long  days  impatiently  until  the  hearing  of 
the  injunction  in  little  Ben's  suit  arrived,  and  every  day 
burned  some  heavier  line  into  his  face  that  recorded  the 
presence  of  the  quenchless  fire  of  purpose  in  his  heart. 

A  smiling,  affable  man  was  Judge  Thomas  Van  Dorn  in  his 
court  the  morning  of  June  16.  He  had  his  ticket  bought 
for  Chicago  and  a  seat  in  the  great  convention  of  his  party  as 
sured.  He  walked  through  the  court  room,  rather  dapperly. 
He  put  his  high  silk  hat  on  the  bench  beside  him,  by  way  of 
adding  a  certain  air  of  easy  informality  to  the  proceedings. 


540  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

His  red  necktie  brought  out  every  thin  wrinkle  in  his  bur 
nished  brown  face  and  upon  the  pink  brow  threaded  by  a 
chain  lightning  of  a  scar.  The  old  mushy,  emotional  voice 
of  his  youth  and  maturity  had  thickened,  and  he  talked 
loudly.  He  listened  to  arguments  of  counsel.  Young  Joe 
Calvin,  representing  the  Fuel  Company,  was  particularly 
eloquent.  Henry  Fenn  knew  that  his  case  was  hopeless,  but 
made  such  reply  as  he  could. 

"Well,"  cut  in  the  court  before  Fenn  was  off  his  feet  at 
the  close  of  his  argument,  "there's  nothing  to  your  conten 
tion.  The  court  is  familiar  with  those  cases,  cited  by  counsel. 
Either  the  constitution  means  what  it  says  or  it  doesn't.  This 
court  is  willing  to  subscribe  to  a  fund  to  pay  this  Bowman 
child  a  just  compensation.  This  is  a  case  for  charity  and  the 
company  is  always  generous  in  its  benevolence.  The  Social 
ists  may  have  the  state  courts,  and  the  people  are  doubtless 
crazy — but  this  court  will  uphold  the  constitution.  The  in 
junction  is  made  permanent,  The  court  stands  adjourned." 

The  crowd  of  laborers  in  the  court  room  laughed  in  the 
Judge's  face.  They  followed  Grant  Adams,  who  with  head 
bowed  in  thought  walked  slowly  to  the  street  car.  "Well, 
fellows,"  said  Grant,  "here's  the  end.  As  it  stands  now, 
the  law  considers  steel  and  iron  in  machinery  more  sacred 
than  flesh  and  blood.  The  court  would  have  allowed  them 
to  appropriate  money  for  machines  without  due  process  of 
law;  but  it  enjoins  them  from  appropriating  money  for 
flesh  and  blood."  He  was  talking  to  the  members  of  the 
Valley  Labor  Council  as  they  stood  waiting  for  a  car.  "We 
may  as  well  miss  a  car  and  present  our  demands  to  the  Cal- 
vins.  The  sooner  we  get  this  thing  moving,  the  better." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  Council  walked  into  the  office  of 
Calvin  and  Calvin.  There  sat  Joseph  Calvin,  the  elder,  a 
ratty  little  man  still,  with  a  thin  stringy  neck  and  with  a 
bald  head.  His  small,  mousy  eyes  blinked  at  the  work 
men.  He  was  exceedingly  polite.  He  admitted  that  he  was 
attorney  for  the  owners'  association  in  the  Valley,  that  he 
could  if  he  chose  speak  for  them  in  any  negotiations  they 
might  desire  to  make  with  their  employees,  but  that  he  was 
authorized  to  say  that  the  owners  were  not  ready  to  consider 
or  even  to  receive  any  communication  from  the  men  upon 


LIDA  BOWMAN  CONSIDERS  HER  UNIVERSE     541 

any  subject — except  as  individual  employees  might  desire  to 
confer  with  superintendents  or  foremen  in  the  various  mines 
and  mills. 

So  they  walked  out.  At  labor  headquarters  in  South  Har 
vey,  Nathan  Perry  came  sauntering  in. 

"Well,  boys — let's  have  your  agreement — I  think  I  know 
what  it  is.  We're  ready  to  sign." 

In  an  hour  men  were  carrying  out  posters  to  be  distributed 
throughout  the  Valley,  signed  by  Grant  Adams,  chairman  of 
the  Wahoo  Valley  Trades  Workers'  Council.  It  read: 

STRIKE     STRIKE     STRIKE 

The  managers  of  our  mines  and  mills  in  the  Wahoo  Valley  have 
refused  to  confer  with  representatives  of  the  workers  about  an  im 
portant  matter.  Therefore  we  order  a  general  strike  of  all  workers 
in  the  mines  and  mills  in  this  District.  Workers  before  leaving  will 
see  that  their  machines  are  carefully  oiled,  covered,  and  prepared  to 
rest  without  injury.  For  we  claim  partnership  interest  in  them,  and 
should  protect  them  and  all  our  property  in  the  mines  and  mills  in 
this  Valley.  During  this  strike,  we  pledge  ourselves. 

To  orderly  conduct. 

To  keep  out  of  the  saloons. 

To  protect  our  property  in  the  mines  and  mills. 

To  use  our  influence  to  restrain  all  violence  of  speech  or  conduct. 
And  we  make  the  following  demands: 

First.  That  prices  of  commodities  turned  out  in  this  district  diall 
not  be  increased  to  the  public  as  a  result  of  concessions  to  us  in  this 
strike,  and  to  that  end  we  demand. 

Second.  That  we  be  allowed  to  have  a  representative  in  the  offices 
of  all  concerns  interested,  said  representative  to  have  access  to  all 
books  and  accounts,  guaranteeing  to  labor  such  increases  in  wages 
as  shall  be  evidently  just,  allowing  8  per  cent,  dividends  on  stock,  the 
payment  of  interest  on  bonds,  and  such  sums  for  upkeep,  maintenance, 
and  repairs  as  shall  not  include  the  creation  of  a  surplus  or  fund  for 
extensions. 

Third,  we  demand  that  the  companies  concerned  shall  obey  all  laws 
enacted  by  the  state  or  nation  to  improve  conditions  of  industry  until 
such  laws  have  been  passed  upon  by  the  supreme  courts  of  the  state 
and  of  the  United  States. 

Fourth,  we  demand  that  all  negotiations  between  the  employers  and 
the  workers  arising  out  of  the  demands  shall  be  conducted  on  behalf 
of  the  workers  by  the  Trades  Workers'  Council  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  or 
their  accredited  'representatives. 

During  this  strike  we  promise  to  the  public  righteous  peace;   after 
the  strike  we  promise  to  the  managers  of   the  mines  and  mills  ef 
ficient  labor,  and  to  the  workers  always  justice. 
STRIKE     STRIKE     STRIKE 


542  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

At  two  o'clock  that  June  afternoon  the  whistle  of  the  big 
engine  in  the  smelter  in  South  Harvey,  the  whistle  in  the 
glass  factory  at  Magnus,  and  the  siren  in  the  cement  mill  at 
Foley  blew,  and  gradually  the  wheels  stopped,  the  machines 
were  covered,  the  fires  drawn,  the  engines  wiped  and  covered 
with  oil,  and  the  men  marched  out  of  all  the  mills  and  mines 
and  shops  in  the  district.  There  was  no  uproar,  no  rioting, 
but  in  an  hour  all  the  garden  patches  in  the  Valley  were 
black  with  men.  The  big  strike  of  the  Wahoo  Valley  was  on. 


CHAPTER  XL VI 

WHEREIN    GRANT   ADAMS   PREACHES    PEACE   AND    LIDA   BOWMAN 
SPEAKS  HER  MIND 

A  WAR,  being  an  acute  stage  of  discussion  about  the 
ownership  of  property,  is  a  war  even  though'  "the 
lead  striker  calls  it  a  strike,"  and  even  though  he  pro 
poses  to  conduct  the  acute  stage  of  the  discussion  on  high 
moral  grounds.  The  gentleman  who  is  being  relieved  of  what 
he  considers  at  the  moment  his  property,  has  no  notion  of 
giving  it  up  without  a  struggle,  no  matter  how  courteously 
he  is  addressed,  nor  upon  what  exalted  grounds  the  dis 
cussion  is  ranging.  It  is  a  world-old  mistake  of  the  Have- 
riots  to  discount  the  value  which  the  Haves  put  upon  their 
property.  The  Have-nots,  generally  speaking,  hold  the  prop 
erty  under  discussion  in  low  esteem.  They  have  not  had  the 
property  in  question.  They  don't  know  what  a  good  thing 
it  is — except  in  theory.  But  the  Haves  have  had  the  prop 
erty  and  they  will  fight  for  it,  displaying  a  degree  of  feeling 
that  always  surprises  the  Have-nots,  and  naturally  weakens 
their  regard  for  the  high  motives  and  disinterested  citizen 
ship  of  the  Haves. 

Now  Grant  Adams  in  the  great  strike  in  the  Wahoo  Valley 
was  making  the  world-old  mistake.  He  was  relying  upon  the 
moral  force  of  his  argument  to  separate  the  Haves  from 
their  property.  He  had  cared  little  for  the  property.  The 
poor  never  care  much  for  property — otherwise  they  would 
not  be  poor.  So  Grant  and  his  followers  in  the  Valley — and 
all  over  the  world  for  that  matter, —  (for  they  are  of  the  great 
cult  who  believe  in  a  more  equitable  distribution  of  property, 
through  a  restatement  of  the  actual  values  of  various  servants 
to  society),  went  into  their  demands  for  partnership  rights 
in  the  industrial  property  around  them,  in  a  sublime  and 
beautiful  but  untenable  faith  that  the  righteousness  of  their 

543 


544  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

cause  would  win  it.  The  afternoon  when  the  men  walked 
out  of  the  mines  and  mills  and  shops,  placards  covered  the 
dead  walls  of  the  Valley  and  the  hired  billboards  in  Harvey 
setting  forth  the  claims  of  the  men.  They  bought  and  paid 
for  twenty  thousand  copies  of  Amos  Adams's  Tribune,  and 
distributed  it  in  every  home  in  the  district,  setting  forth 
their  reasons  for  striking.  Great  posters  were  spread  over 
the  town  and  in  the  Valley  declaring  ' ' the  rule  of  this  strike 
is  to  be  square,  and  to  be  square  means  that  the  strikers  will 
do  as  they  would  be  done  by.  There  will  be  no  violence. " 

Now  it  would  seem  that  coming  to  the  discussion  with  these 
obviously  high  motives,  and  such  fair  promises,  the  strikers 
would  have  been  met  by  similarly  altruistic  methods.  But 
instead,  the  next  morning  at  half  past  six,  when  a  thousand 
strikers  appeared  bearing  large  white  badges  inscribed  with 
the  words,  "We  stand  for  peace  and  law  and  order,"  and 
when  the  strikers  appeared  before  the  entrance  to  the  shaft 
houses  and  the  gates  and  doors  of  the  smelters  and  mills,  to 
beg  men  and  women  not  to  fill  the  vacant  places  at  the  mills 
and  mines,  the  white-badged  brigade  was  met  with  five  hun 
dred  policemen  who  rudely  ordered  the  strikers  to  move  on. 

The  Haves  were  exhibiting  feeling  in  the  matter.  But 
the  mines  and  mills  did  not  open ;  not  enough  strike-breakers 
appeared.  So  that  afternoon,  a  great  procession  of  white- 
badged  men  and  white-clad  women  and  children,  formed  in 
South  Harvey,  and,  headed  by  the  Foley  Brass  Band,  marched 
through  Market  Street  and  for  five  miles  through  the  streets 
of  Harvey  singing.  Upon  a  platform  carried  by  eight  white- 
clad  mothers,  sat  little  Ben  Bowman  swathed  in  white, 
waving  a  white  flag  in  his  hand,  and  leading  the  singing. 
Over  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  were  these  words  on  a  great 
banner.  "For  his  legal  rights  and  for  all  such  as  he  we 
demand  that  the  law  be  enforced." 

For  two  hours  the  procession  wormed  through  Harvey. 
The  streets  were  crowded  to  watch  it.  It  made  its  impression 
on  the  town.  The  elder  Calvin  watched  it  with  Mayor  Ahab 
Wright,  in  festal  side  whiskers,  from  the  office  of  Calvin  & 
Calvin.  Young  Joe  Calvin  from  time  to  time  came  and  looked 
over  their  shoulders.  But  he  was  for  the  most  part  too  busily 
engaged,  making  out  commissions  for  deputy  sheriffs  and 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     545 

extra  policemen,  to  watch  the  parade.  As  the  parade  came 
back  headed  for  South  Harvey,  the  ear  of  the  young  man 
caught  a  familiar  tune.  He  watched  Ahab  Wright  and  his 
father  to  see  if  they  recognized  it.  The  placid  face  of  the 
Mayor  betrayed  no  more  consciousness  of  the  air  than  did 
his  immaculate  white  necktie.  The  elder  Calvin's  face 
showed  no  appreciative  wrinkles.  The  band  passed  down 
the  street  roaring  the  battle  hymn  of  labor  that  has  become 
so  familiar  all  over  the  world.  The  great  procession  paused 
uncovered  in  the  street,  while  Little  Ben  waved  his  flag 
and  raised  his  clear,  boyish  voice  with  its  clarion  note  and 
sang,  as  the  procession  waved  back.  And  at  the  spectacle 
of  the  crippled  child,  waving  his  one  little  arm,  and  lifting 
his  voice  in  a  lusty  strain,  the  sidewalk  crowd  cheered  and 
those  who  knew  the  tune  joined. 

Young  Joe  Calvin  stood  with  his  hands  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  two  sitting  men.  "Mr.  Mayor,  do  you  know  that 
tune?"  said  Young  Joe. 

Mr.  Mayor,  whose  only  secular  tune  was  "Yankee  Doodle, " 
confessed  his  ignorance.  "Listen  to  the  words,"  suggested 
Young  Joe.  Old  Joe  put  his  hand  to  his  right  ear.  Ahab 
Wright  leaned  forward,  and  the  words  of  the  old,  old  cry 
of  the  Reds  of  the  Midi  came  surging  up : 

"To  arms!  to  arms! — ye  brave! 

The  avenging  sword  unsheathe! 
March  on !     March  on !  all  hearts  resolved 
On  victory  or  death." 

When  Ahab  Wright  caught  the  words  he  was  open  mouthed 
with  astonishment.  "Why — why,"  he  cried,  "that — why, 
that  is  sedition.  They're  advocating  murder!" 

Young  Joe  Calvin 's  face  did  not  betray  him,  and  he  nodded 
a  warning  head.  Old  Joe  looked  the  genuine  consternation 
which  he  felt. 

"We  can't  have  this,  Ahab — this  won't  do — a  few  days  of 
this  and  we'll  have  bloodshed." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Ahab  Wright  that  he  had  been  singing 
"Onward,  Christian  Soldiers,"  and  "I  Am  a  Soldier  of  the 
Cross,"  and  "111  Be  Washed  in  the  Blood  of  the  Lamb," 
all  of  his  pious  life,  without  ever  meaning  anything  particu- 


546  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

larly  sanguinary.  He  heard  the  war  song  of  the  revolution, 
and  being  a  literal  and  peth-headed  man,  prepared  to  defend 
the  flag  with  all  the  ardor  that  had  burned  in  John  Kol- 
lander's  heart  for  fifty  years. 

i 'I  tell  you,  Mr.  Mayor,  we  need  the  troops.  The  Sheriff 
agrees  with  me — now  you  hear  that, ' '  said  young  Joe.  ' '  Will 
you  wait  until  some  one  is  killed  or  worse,  until  a  mine  is 
flooded,  before  sending  for  them  ? ' ' 

"You  know,  Ahab,"  put  in  old  Joe,  "the  Governor  said 
on  the  phone  this  morning,  not  to  let  this  situation  get  away 
from  you." 

The  crowd  was  joining  the  singing.  The  words — the  in 
spiring  words  of  the  labor  chant  had  caught  the  people  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  a  great  diapason  was  rising: 

"March    on!     March    on! — all    hearts    resolved 
On  victory  or  death." 

1 '  Hear  that— hear  that,  Ahab  ! ' '  cried  old  Joe.  ' '  Why,  the 
decent  people  up  town  here  are  going  crazy — they're  all 
singing  it — and  that  little  devil  is  waving  a  red  flag  with  the 
white  one!" 

Ahab  Wright  looked  and  was  aghast.  "Doesn't  that  mean 
rebellion — anarchy — and  bloodshed?"  he  gasped. 

"It  means  socialism,"  quoth  young  Joe,  laconically, 
"which  is  the  same  thing." 

"Well,  well!  my!  my!  Dear  me,"  fretted  Ahab,  "we 
mustn't  let  this  go  on." 

"Shall  I  get  the  Governor  on  the  phone — you  know  we 
have  the  Sheriff's  order  here — just  waiting  for  you  to  join 
him?"  asked  young  Joe. 

The  Haves  were  moving  the  realm  of  the  discussion  about 
their  property  from  pure  reason  to  the  baser  emotions. 

"Look,  look!"  cried  the  Mayor.  "Grant  Adams  is  stand 
ing  on  that  platform — and  those  women  have  to  hold  him  up 
• — it's  shameful.  Listen!" 

"I  want  to  say  to  my  old  neighbors  and  friends  here  in 
Harvey,"  cried  Grant,  "that  in  this  strike  we  shall  try  with 
all  our  might,  with  all  our  hearts'  best  endeavors,  to  do  unto 
others  as  we  would  have  them  do  unto  us.  Our  property  in 
the  mines  and  mills  in  this  Valley,  we  shall  protect,  just  as 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     547 

sacredly  as  our  partners  on  Wall  Street  would  protect  it. 
It  is  our  property — we  are  the  legatees  of  the  laborers  who 
have  piled  it  up.  You  men  of  Harvey  know  that  these  mines 
represent  little  new  capital.  They  were  dug  with  the  profits 
from  the  first  few  shafts.  The  smelters  rose  from  the  profits 
of  the  first  smelters  in  the  district.  Where  capital  has 
build ed  with  fresh  investment — we  make  no  specific  claim, 
but  where  capital  has  builded  here  in  this  district  from  profits 
made  in  the  district — profits  made  by  reason  of  cheating  the 
crippled  and  the  killed,  profits  made  by  long  deadly  hours 
of  labor,  profits  made  by  cooking  men's  lungs  on  the  slag 
dump,  profits  made  by  choking  men  to  death,  unrequited,  in 
cement  dust,  profits  sweated  out  of  the  men  at  the  glass 
furnaces — where  capital  has  appropriated  unjustly,  we  ex 
pect  to  appropriate  justly.  We  shall  take  nothing  that  we 
do  not  own.  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  rise  of  the  Democ 
racy  of  Labor — the  dawn  of  the  new  day."  He  waved  his 
arm  and  his  steel  claw  and  chanted : 

"March   on! — March   on! — all   hearts   resolved," 
And  in  a  wave  of  song  the  response  came 

"To    victory    or    death." 

Grant  Adams  flaunted  his  black  slouch  hat ;  then  he  sprang 
from  the  platform,  and  hurried  to  the  front  of  the  procession. 
The  band  struck  up  a  lively  tune  and  the  long  trail  of  white- 
clad  women  and  white-badged  men  became  animate. 

4 'Well,  Ahab  -you  heard  that?  That  is  rebellion,"  said 
old  Joe,  squinting  his  mole-like  eyes.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  that — as  the  chief  priest  of  law  and  order  in 
this  community?" 

Five  minutes  later  Ahab  Wright,  greatly  impressed  with 
the  dignity  of  his  position,  arid  with  the  fact  that  he  was  talk 
ing  to  so  superior  a  person  as  a  governor,  was  saying : 

"Yes,  your  excellency — yes,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  of  our 
conditions  here  in  the  Valley.  It's  serious — quite  serious." 
To  the  Governor's  question  the  Mayor  replied: 

"No — no — not  yet,  but  we  want  to  prevent  it.  This  man 
Adams — Grant  Adams,  you've  heard  about  him — " 


548  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

And  then  an  instant  later  he  continued,  "Yes — that's 
the  man,  Governor — Dr.  Nesbit's  friend.  Well,  this  man 
Adams  has  no  respect  for  authority,  nor  for  property  rights, 
and  he's  stirring  up  the  people." 

Young  Joe  Calvin  winked  at  his  father  and  said  during  the 
pause, 

"That's  the  stuff — the  old  man's  coming  across  like  a 
top." 

Ahab  went  on:  "Exactly — 'false  and  seditious  doc 
trines/  and  I'm  afraid,  Governor,  that  it  will  be  wise  to  send 
us  some  troops." 

The  Calvins  exchanged  approving  nods,  and  young  Joe, 
having  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  in  his  blood,  beat  his  desk  in 
joyous  approval  of  the  trend  of  events. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  as  to  that,"  continued  Ahab,  answer 
ing  the  Governor.  "We  have  about  four  thousand  men — 
perhaps  a  few  more  out.  You  know  how  many  troops  can 
handle  them." 

"Tell  him  we'll  quarter  them  in  the  various  plants,  Ahab," 
cut  in  old  Joe,  and  Ahab  nodded  as  he  listened. 

"Well,  don't  wait  for  the  tents,"  he  said.  "Our  people 
will  quarter  the  men  in  the  buildings  in  the  centers  of  the  dis 
turbance.  Our  merchants  can  supply  your  quartermaster 
with  everything.  We  have  about  a  thousand  policemen  and 
deputy  sheriffs — " 

While  the  Mayor  was  listening  to  the  Governor,  Calvin 
senior  said  to  his  son,  "Probably  we'd  better  punch  him  up 
with  that  promise  about  the  provo  marshal,"  and  young  Joe 
interrupted : 

"And,  Mr.  Mayor,  don't  forget  to  remind  him  of  the  prom 
ise  he  made  to  Tom  Van  Dorn, — about  me." 

Ahab  nodded  and  listened.  "Wait,"  he  said,  putting  his 
hand  over  the  telephone  receiver,  and  added  in  a  low  voice 
to  those  in  the  room:  "He  was  just  talking  about  that  and 
thinks  he  will  not  proclaim  martial  law  until  there  is  actual 
violence — which  he  feels  will  follow  the  coming  of  the  troops, 
when  the  men  see  he  is  determined.  He  said  then  that  he 
expected  Captain  Calvin  of  the  Harvey  Company  to  take 
charge,  and  the  Governor  will  speak  to  the  other  officers 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     549 

about  it."  Ahab  paused  a  moment  for  further  orders. 
''Well/'  said  the  elder  Calvin,  "I  believe  that's  all." 

''Will  there  be  anything  else  to-day,  Joe?"  asked  Ahab, 
unconsciously  assuming  his  counter  manner  to  young  Joe 
Calvin,  who  replied  without  a  smile: 

''Well — no — not  to-day,  thank  you,"  and  Ahab  went  back 
to  the  Governor  and  ended  the  parley. 

The  Times  the  next  morning  with  flaring  headlines  an 
nounced  that  the  Governor  had  decided  to  send  troops  to 
the  Wahoo  Valley  to  protect  the  property  in  the  mines  and 
mills  for  the  rightful  owners  and  to  prevent  any  further 
incendiary  speaking  and  rioting  such  as  had  disgraced  Mar 
ket  Street  the  day  before.  In  an  editorial  the  Governor  was 
advised  to  proclaim  martial  law,  as  only  the  strictest  repres 
sion  would  prevent  the  rise  of  anarchy  and  open  rebellion  to 
the  authorities. 

The  troops  came  on  the  early  morning  trains,  and  filed  into 
the  sheds  occupied  by  the  workmen  before  the  strike.  The 
young  militiamen  immediately  began  pervading  South  Har 
vey,  Foley  and  Magnus,  and  when  the  strikers  lined  up  before 
the  gates  and  doors  of  their  former  working  places  at  seven 
o'clock  that  morning  they  met  a  brown  line  of  youths — devil- 
may-care  young  fellows  out  for  a  lark,  who  liked  to  prod  the 
workmen  with  their  bayonets  and  who  laughingly  ordered  the 
strikers  to  stop  trying  to  keep  the  strike-breakers  from  go 
ing  to  work.  The  strikers  were  bound  by  their  pledges  to  the 
Trades  Council  not  to  touch  the  strike-breakers  under  any  cir 
cumstances.  The  strikers — white-badged  and  earnest-faced 
— made  their  campaign  by  lining  up  five  on  each  side  of  a 
walk  or  path  through  which  the  strike-breakers  would  have 
to  pass  to  their  work,  and  crying: 

"Help  us,  and  we'll  help  you.  Don't  scab  on  us — keep 
out  of  the  works,  and  we'll  see  that  you  are  provided  for. 
Join  us — don't  turn  your  backs  on  your  fellow  workers." 

They  would  stretch  out  their  arms  in  mute  appeal  when 
words  failed,  and  they  brought  dozens  of  strike-breakers 
away  from  their  work.  And  on  the  second  morning  of  the 
strike  not  a  wheel  turned  in  the  district. 

All  morning  Grant  Adams  moved  among  the  men.     He 


550  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

was  a  marked  figure — with  his  steel  claw — and  he  realized 
that  he  was  regarded  by  the  militiamen  as  an  ogre.  A  young 
militiaman  had  hurt  a  boy  in  Magnus — pricked  him  in  the 
leg  and  cut  an  artery.  Grant  tried  to  see  the  Colonel  of 
the  company  to  protest.  But  the  soldier  had  been  to  the 
officer  with  his  story,  and  Grant  was  told  that  the  boy  at 
tacked  the  militiaman — which,  considering  that  the  boy  was 
a  child  in  his  early  teens  and  the  man  was  armed  and  in  his 
twenties,  was  unlikely.  But  Grant  saw  that  his  protests 
would  not  avail.  He  issued  a  statement,  gave  it  to  the  press 
correspondents  who  came  flocking  in  with  the  troops,  and 
sent  it  to  the  Governor,  who  naturally  transferred  it  back  to 
the  militiamen. 

In  the  afternoon  the  parade  started  again — the  women  and 
children  in  white,  and  the  men  in  white  coats  and  white  work 
ing  caps.  It  formed  on  a  common  between  Harvey  and 
South  Harvey,  and  instead  of  going  into  Harvey  turned 
down  into  the  Valley  where  it  marched  silently  around  the 
quiet  mills  and  shafts  and  to  the  few  tenements  where  the 
strike-breakers  were  lodged.  A  number  of  them  were  sit 
ting  at  the  windows  and  on  the  steps  and  when  the  strikers 
saw  the  men  in  the  tenements,  they  raised  their  arms  in  mute 
appeal,  but  spoke  no  word.  Down  the  Valley  the  proces 
sion  hurried  and  in  every  town  repeated  this  performance. 
The  troops  had  gathered  in  Harvey  and  were  waiting,  arid 
it  was  not  until  after  three  o'clock  that  they  started  after 
the  strikers.  A  troop  of  cavalry  overtook  the  column  in 
Foley,  and  rode  through  the  line  a  few  times,  but  no  one 
spoke,  and  the  cavalrymen  rode  along  the  line  but  did  not  try 
to  break  it.  So  the  third  day  passed  without  a  fire  in  a 
furnace  in  the  district. 

That  night  Grant  Adams  addressed  the  strikers  in  Belgian 
Hall  in  South  Harvey,  in  Fraternity  Hall  in  Magnus  and  on 
a  common  in  Foley.  The  burden  of  his  message  was  this: 
"Stick — stick  to  the  strike  and  to  our  method.  If  we  can 
demonstrate  the  fact  that  we  have  the  brains  to  organize,  to 
abandon  force,  to  maintain  ourselves  financially,  to  put  our 
cause  before  our  fellow  workers  so  clearly  that  they  will  join 
us — we  can  win,  we  can  enter  into  the  partnership  in  these 
mills  that  is  ours  by  right.  The  Democracy  of  Labor  is  a 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     551 

Democracy  of  Peace — only  in  peace,  only  by  using  the  higher 
arts  of  peace  under  great  provocation  may  we  establish  that 
Democracy  and  come  into  our  own.  Stick — stick — stick  to 
the  strike  and  stick  to  the  ways  of  peace.  Let  them  rally 
to  their  Colonels  and  their  tin  soldiers — and  we  shall  not  fear 
— for  we  are  gathered  about  the  Prince  of  Peace." 

The  workmen  always  rose  to  this  appeal  and  in  Foley  where 
the  Letts  had  worked  in  the  slag-dump,  one  of  them,  who 
did  not  quite  understand  the  association  of  words  implied 
by  the  term  the  Prince  of  Peace,  cried : 

11  Hurrah  for  Grant,  he  is  the  Prince  of  Peace,"  and  the 
good  natured  crowd  laughed  and  cheered  the  man's  mistake. 

But  the  Times  the  next  morning  contained  this  head : 

"Shame  on  Grant  Adams,  Trying  to  Inflame  Ignorant  Foreigners. 

Declares  he  is  the  Prince  of  Peace  and  gets  Applause  from  his  Excited 

Dupes — Will  he  Claim  to  be  Messiah?" 

It  was  a  good  story — from  a  purely  sensational  viewpoint, 
and  it  was  telegraphed  over  the  country,  that  Grant  Adams, 
the  labor  leader,  was  claiming  to  be  a  messiah  and  was 
rallying  foreigners  to  him  by  supernatural  powers.  The 
Times  contained  a  vicious  editorial  calling  on  all  good  citizens 
to  stamp  out  the  blasphemous  cult  that  Adams  was  propa 
gating.  The  editorial  said  that  the  authorities  should  not 
allow  such  a  man  to  speak  on  the  streets  maintained  by  tax 
payers,  and  that  with  the  traitorous  promises  of  ownership 
of  the  mines  and  mills  backing  up  such  a  campaign,  rebellion 
would  soon  be  stalking  the  street  and  bloodshed  such  as  had 
not  been  seen  in  America  for  a  generation  would  follow.  The 
names  which  the  Times  called  Grant  Adams  indicated  so 
much  malice,  that  Grant  felt  encouraged,  and  believed  he 
had  the  strike  won,  if  he  could  keep  down  violence.  So 
triumpli  flambeaued  itself  on  his  face.  For  two  peaceful 
days  had  passed.  And  peace  was  his  signal  of  victory. 

But  during  the  night  a  trainload  of  strike-breakers  came 
from  Chicago.  They  were  quartered  in  the  railroad  yards, 
and  Grant  ordered  a  thousand  pickets  out  to  meet  the  men 
at  daybreak.  Grant  called  out  the  groups  of  seven  and  each 
lodging  house,  tenement  and  car  on  the  railroad  siding  was 
parceled  out  to  a  group.  Moreover,  Grant  threw  his  army 


552  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

into  action  by  ordering  twenty  groups  into  Sands  Park, 
through  which  the  strike-breaking  smelter  men  would  pass 
after  the  pickets  had  spoken  to  the  strike-breakers  in  their 
door  yards.  Lining  the  park  paths,  men  stood  in  the  early 
morning  begging  working  men  not  to  go  into  the  places  made 
vacant  by  the  strike.  In  addition  to  this,  he  posted  other 
groups  of  strikers  to  stand  near  the  gates  and  doors  of  the 
working  places,  begging  the  strike-breakers  to  join  the 
strikers. 

Grant  Adams,  in  his  office,  was  the  motive  power  of  the 
strike.  By  telephone  his  power  was  transferred  all  over  the 
district.  Violet  Hogaii  and  Henry  Feiin  were  with  him. 
Two  telephones  began  buzzing  as  the  first  strikers  went  into 
Sands  Park.  Fenn,  sitting  by  Grant,  picked  up  the  first 
transmitter;  Violet  took  the  other.  She  took  the  message 
in  shorthand.  Fenn  translated  a  running  jargon  between 
breaths. 

"Police  down  in  Foley— Clubbing  the  Letts.— No  blood 
shed. — They  are  running  back  to  their  gardens." 

"Tell  the  French  to  take  their  places/'  said  Grant — 
"There  are  four  French  sevens — tell  him  to  get  them  out 
right  away — but  not  to  fight  the  cops.  Militia  there?" 

"No/'  answered  Fenn,  "they  are  guarding  the  mill  doors, 
and  this  happened  in  the  streets  near  the  lodging  houses." 

"Mr.  Adams,"  said  Violet,  reading,  "there's  some  kind 
of  a  row  in  Sands  Park.  The  cavalry  is  there  and  Ira  Dooley 
says  to  tell  you  to  clear  out  the  Park  or  there  will  be  trouble." 

"Get  the  boys  on  the  phone,  Violet,  and  tell  them  I  said 
leave  the  Park,  then,  and  go  to  the  shaft  houses  in  Magnus — 
but  to  march  in  silence — understand?" 

Fenn  picked  up  the  transmitter  again,  "What's  that — 
what's  that — "  he  cried.  Then  he  mumbled  on,  "He  says 
the  cops  have  ax-handles  and  that  down  by  the  smelters  they 
are  whacking  our  people  right  and  left — Three  in  an  ambu 
lance? — The  Slavs  won't  take  it?  Cop  badly  hurt?"  asked 
Fenn. 

Grant  Adams  groaned,  and  put  his  head  in  his  hand,  and 
leaned  on  the  desk.  He  rose  up  suddenly  with  a  flaming 
face  and  said:  "I'm  going  down  there — I  can  stop  it." 

He  bolted  from  the  room  and  rattled  down  the  stairs.     In 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE    553 

a  minute  he  came  running  up.  ''Violet—  "  he  called  to  the 
woman  who  was  busy  at  the  telephone— "  shut  that  man  off 
and  order  a  car  for  me  quick — they've  stolen  my  crank  and 
cut  every  one  of  my  tires.  For  God's  sake  be  quick — I  must 
get  down  to  those  Slavs. ' ' 

In  a  moment  Violet  had  shut  off  her  interviewer,  and  was 
calling  the  South  Harvey  Garage.  Henry  Fenn,  busy  with 
his  phone,  looked  up  with  a  drawn  face  and  cried : 

"Grant — the  Cossacks — the  Cossacks  are  riding  down 
those  little  Italians  in  Sands  Park — chasing  them  like  dogs 
from  the  paths — they  say  the  cavalry  is  using  whips ! ' ' 

Grant  stood  with  bowed  head  and  arched  shoulders  listen 
ing.  The  muscles  of  his  jaw  contracted,  and  he  snapped 
his  teeth. 

''Any  one  hurt?"  he  asked.  Fenn,  with  the  receiver  to 
his  ear  went  on,  "The  Dagoes  are  not  fighting  back — the 
cavalrymen  are  shooting  in  the  air,  but — the  lines  are 
broken — the  scabs  are  marching  to  the  mines  through  a  line 
of  soldiers — we've  stopped  about  a  third  from  the  cars — 
they  are  forming  at  the  upper  end  of  the  Park — our  men, 
they—" 

' '  Good-by, ' '  shouted  Grant,  as  he  heard  a  motor  car  whirr 
ing  in  the  distance. 

Turning  out  of  the  street  he  saw  a  line  of  soldiers  block 
ing  his  way.  He  had  the  driver  turn,  and  at  the  next  corner 
found  himself  blocked  in.  Once  more  he  tried,  and  again 
found  himself  fenced  in.  He  jumped  from  the  car,  and  ran, 
head  down,  toward  the  line  of  young  fellows  in  khaki  block 
ing  the  street.  As  he  came  up  to  them  he  straightened  up, 
and,  striking  with  his  hook  a  terrific  blow,  the  bayonet  that 
would  have  stopped  him,  Grant  caught  the  youth's  coat  in  the 
steel  claw,  whirled  him  about  and  was  gone  in  a  second. 

He  ran  through  alleys  and  across  commons  until  he  caught 
a  street  car  for  the  smelters.  Here  he  heard  the  roar  of  the 
riot.  He  saw  the  new  ax-handles  of  the  policemen  beating 
the  air,  and  occasionally  thudding  on  a  man's  back  or  head. 
The  Slavs  were  crying  and  throwing  clods  and  stones. 
Grant  ran  up  and  bellowed  in  his  great  voice : 

"Quit  it — break  away — there,  you  men.  Let  the  cops 
alone.  Do  you  want  to  lose  this  strike?" 


554  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

A  policeman  put  his  hand  on  Grant's  shoulder  to  arrest 
him.  Grant  brushed  him  aside. 

"Break  away  there,  boys,"  he  called.  The  Slavs  were 
standing  staring  at  him.  Several  bloody  faces  testified  to 
the  effectiveness  of  the  ax-handles. 

"Stand  back — stand  back.  Get  to  your  lines,"  he  called, 
glaring  at  them.  They  fell  under  his  spell  and  obeyed. 
When  they  were  quiet  he  walked  over  to  them,  and  said 
gently : 

"It's  all  right,  boys — grin  and  bear  it.  We'll  win.  You 
couldn  't  help  it — I  couldn  't  either. ' '  He  smiled.  ' '  But  try 
—try  next  time."  The  strike-breakers  were  huddled  back 
of  the  policemen. 

"Men,"  he  shouted  to  the  strike-breakers  over  the  heads 
of  the  policemen,  "this  strike  is  yours  as  well  as  ours.  We 
have  money  to  keep  you,  if  you  will  join  us.  Come  with  us — 
comrades — Oh,  comrades,  stand  with  us  in  this  fight !  Go  in 
there  and  they'll  enslave  you— they'll  butcher  you  and  kill 
you  and  offer  you  a  lawsuit  for  your  blood.  We  offer  you 
justice,  if  we  win.  Come,  come,"  he  cried,  "fellow  workers 
— comrades,  help  us  to  have  peace." 

The  policemen  formed  a  line  into  the  door  of  the  shaft 
house.  The  strike-breakers  hesitated.  Grant  approached 
the  line  of  policemen,  put  up  his  arm  and  his  maimed  hand, 
lifted  his  rough,  broken  face  skyward  and  cried,  "0 — 0 — 
0,  God,  pour  Thy  peace  into  their  hearts  that  they  may  have 
mercy  on  their  comrades." 

A  silence  fell,  the  strike-breakers  began  to  pass  through 
the  police  lines  to  join  the  strikers.  At  first  only  one  at  a 
time,  then  two.  And  then,  the  line  broke  and  streamed 
around  the  policemen.  A  great  cheer  went  up  from  the 
street,  and  Grant  Adams's  face  twitched  and  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  Then  he  hurried  away. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  and  the  picketing  for  the  day  was 
done,  when  Grant  reached  his  office. 

"Well,"  said  Fenn,  who  had  Violet's  notes  before  him, 
"it's  considerably  better  than  a  dog  fall.  They  haven't  a 
smelter  at  work.  Two  shafts  are  working  with  about  a  third 
of  a  force,  and  we  feel  they  are  bluffing.  The  glass  works 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     555 

furnaces  are  cold.     The  cement  mills  are  dead.     They  beat 
up  the  Italians  pretty  badly  over  in  the  Park." 

The  Times  issued  a  noon  extra  to  tell  of  the  incident  in 
front  of  the  smelter,  and  expatiated  upon  the  Messianic 
myth.  A  tirade  against  Grant  Adams  in  black-faced  type 
three  columns  wide  occupied  the  center  of  the  first  page 
of  the  extra,  and  in  Harvey  people  began  to  believe  that 
he  was  the  "Mad  Mullah"  that  the  Times  said  he  was. 

When  Dr.  Nesbit  drove  his  electric  home  that  noon,  he 
found  his  daughter  waiting  for  him.  She  stood  on  the  front 
porch,  with  a  small  valise  beside  her.  She  was  dressed  in 
white' and  her  youthful  skin,  fresh  lips,  glowing  eyes  and 
heightened  color  made  her  seem  younger  than  the  woman  of 
forty  that  she  was.  Her  father  saw  in  her  face  the  burning 
purpose  to  serve  which  had  come  to  indicate  her  moments 
of  decision.  The  Doctor  had  grown  used  to  that  look  of 
decision  and  he  knew  that  it  was  in  some  way  related  to 
South  Harvey  and  the  strike.  For  during  her  years  of 
work  in  the  Valley,  its  interests  had  grown  to  dominate  her 
life.  But  the  Valley  and  its  interests  had  unfolded  her  soul 
to  its  widest  reach,  to  its  profoundest  depths.  And  in  her 
features  were  blazoned,  at  times,  all  the  love  and  joy  and 
strength  that  her  life  had  gathered.  These  were  the  times 
when  she  wore  what  her  father  called  "the  Valley  look." 
She  had  "the  Valley  look"  in  her  face  that  day  when  she 
stood  waiting  for  her  father  with  the  valise  beside  her — a 
beautiful  woman. 

"Father— now  don't  stop  me,  dear.  I'm  going  to  Grant. 
Mother  will  be  home  in  a  few  days.  I've  told  Lila  to  stay 
with  Martha  Morton  when  you  are  not  here.  It's  always 
secure  and  tranquil  up  here,  you  know.  But  I'm  going  down 
in  the  Valley.  I'm  going  to  the  strike." 

"Going  to  the  strike?"  repeated  her  father. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  turning  her  earnest  eyes  upon  him 
as  she  spoke.  "It's  the  first  duty  I  have  on  earth — to  be 
with  my  people  in  this  crisis.  All  these  years  they  have 
borne  me  up ;  have  renewed  my  faith ;  they  have  given  me 
courage.  Now  is  my  turn,  father.  Where  they  go,  I  go 
also."  She  smiled  gently  and  added,  "I'm  going  to  Grant." 


556  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

She  took  her  father's  hands.  "Father — Oh,  my  good 
friend — you  understand  me — Grant  and  me? — don't  you? 
Every  man  in  the  crisis  of  his  life  needs  a  woman.  I've 
been  reading  about  Grant  in  the  papers.  I  can  see  what 
really  has  happened.  But  he  doesn't  understand  how  what 
they  say  happens,  for  the  next  few  days  or  weeks  or  months, 
while  this  strike  is  on,  is  of  vastly  more  importance  than  what 
really  happens.  He  lacks  perspective  on  himself.  A  woman, 
if  she  is  a  worthy  friend — gives  that  to  a  man.  I  'm  going  to 
Grant — to  my  good  friend,  father,  and  stand  with  him — very 
close,  and  very  true,  I  hope!" 

Trouble  moved  over  the  Doctor's  face  in  a  cloud.  "I 
don't  know  about  Grant,  Laura, ' '  he  said.  "All  this  Messiah 
and  Prince  of  Peace  tomfoolery — and — " 

"Why,  you  know  it  never  happened,  don't  you,  father? 
You  know  Grant  is  not  a  fool — nor  mad?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,  Laura — but  he  approximates  both  at 
times, "  piped  the  father  raspingly. 

"Father — listen  here — listen  to  me,  dear.  I  know  Grant — 
I've  known  him  always.  This  is  what  is  the  matter  with 
Grant.  I  don't  think  one  act  in  all  his  life  was  based  on  a 
selfish  or  an  ulterior  motive.  He  has  spent  his  life  lavishly 
for  others.  He  has  given  himself  without  let  or  hindrance 
for  his  ideals — he  gave  up  power  and  personal  glory — all  for 
this  cause  of  labor.  He  has  been  maimed  and  broken  for  it — 
has  failed  for  it ;  and  now  you  see  what  clouds  are  gathering 
above  him — and  I  must  go  to  him.  I  must  be  with  him." 

"But  for  what  good,  Laura?"  asked  her  father  impa 
tiently. 

' '  For  my  own  soul 's  good  and  glory,  dear, ' '  she  answered 
solemnly.  "To  live  my  faith;  to  stand  by  the  people  with 
whom  I  have  cast  my  lot ;  to  share  the  great  joy  that  I  know 
is  in  Grant's  heart — the  joy  of  serving;  to  triumph  in  his 
failure  if  it  comes  to  that! — to  be  happy — with  him,  as  I 
know  him  no  matter  what  chance  and  circumstance  surround 
him.  Oh— father— " 

She  looked  up  with  brimming  eyes  and  clasped  his  hand 
tightly  while  she  cried:  "I  must  go — Oh,  bless  me  as  I 
go — "  And  the  father  kissed  her  forehead. 

An  hour  later,  while  Grant  Adams,  in  his  office,  was  giving 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     557 

directions  for  the  afternoon  parade  a  white-clad  figure  bright 
ened  the  doorway. 

"Well,  Grant,  I  have  come  to  serve,"  she  smiled,  "under 
you." 

He  turned  and  rose  and  took  her  hands  in  his  one  flinty 
hand  and  said  quietly :  '  *  We  need  you — we  need  you  badly 
right  this  minute. ' ' 

She  answered,  *  *  Very  well,  then — I  'm  ready ! ' ' 

"Well,  go  out  and  work — talk  peace,  don't  let  them  fight, 
hold  the  line  calm  and  we'll  win,"  he  said. 

She  started  away  and  he  cried  after  her,  ' '  Come  to  Belgian 
Hall  to-night — we  may  need  you  there.  The  strike  com 
mittee  and  the  leader  of  each  seven  will  be  there.  It  will  be 
a  war  council. ' ' 

Out  to  the  works  went  Laura  Van  Dorn.  Mounted  police 
men  or  mounted  deputies  or  mounted  militiamen  stood  at 
every  gate.  As  the  strike-breakers  came  out  they  were  sur 
rounded  by  the  officers  of  the  law,  who  marched  away  with 
the  strangers.  The  strikers  followed,  calling  upon  their 
fellow  workers,  stretching  out  pleading  arms  to  them  and  at 
corners  where  the  strikers  were  gathered  in  any  considerable 
numbers,  the  guards  rode  into  the  crowd  waving  their  whips. 
At  a  corner  near  the  Park  a  woman  stepped  from  the  crowd 
and  cried  to  the  officers : 

"That's  my  boy  in  there — I've  got  a  right  to  talk  to  him." 

She  started  to  crowd  between  the  horses,  and  the  policemen 
thrust  her  back. 

"Karl — Karl,"  she  cried,  "you  come  out  of  there;  what 
would  papa  say — and  you  a  scab." 

She  lifted  her  arms  beseechingly  and  started  toward  the 
youth.  A  policeman  cursed  her  and  felled  her  with  a  club. 

She  lay  bleeding  on  the  street,  and  the  strikers  stood  by 
and  ground  their  teeth.  Laura  Van  Dorn  stooped  over  the 
woman,  picked  her  up  and  helped  her  to  walk  home.  But 
as  she  turned  away  she  saw  five  men  walk  out  of  the  ranks 
of  the  strike-breakers  and  join  the  men  on  the  corner.  A 
cheer  went  up,  and  two  more  came. 

Belgian  Hall  was  filled  with  workers  that  night — men 
and  women.  In  front  of  the  stage  at  a  long  table  sat  the 
strike  committee.  Before  them  sat  the  delegates  from  the 


558  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

various  "locals"  and  the  leaders  of  the  sevens.  A  thousand 
men  and  women  filled  the  hall — men  and  women  from  every 
quarter  of  the  globe.  That  night  they  had  decided  to  admit 
the  Jews  from  the  Magnus  paint  works — the  Jews  whom  the 
Russians  scorned,  and  the  Lettish  people  distrusted.  Behind 
all  of  the  delegates  in  a  solid  row  around  the  wall  stood  the 
police,  watching  Grant  Adams.  He  did  not  sit  with  the 
strike  committee  but  worked  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
talking  to  a  group  here  and  encouraging  a  man  or  woman 
there — but  always  restless,  always  fearing  trouble.  It  was 
nine  o'clock  when  the  meeting  opened  by  singing  "The  In 
ternational."  It  was  sung  in  twenty  tongues,  out  the  chorus 
swelled  up  and  men  and  women  wept  as  they  sang. 

"Oh,  the  Brotherhood  of  men 
Shall  be  the  human  race." 

Then  the  delegates  reported.  A  Greek  woman  told  how  she 
had  been  chased  by  men  on  horseback  through  the  woods,  in 
the  Park.  A  Polaek  man  showed  a  torn  hand  that  had 
come  under  an  ax-handle.  A  Frenchman  told  how  he  had 
been  pursued  by  a  horseman  while  going  for  medicine  for  his 
sick  child.  A  Portuguese  told  how  he  had  brought  from  the 
ranks  of  the  strike-breakers  a  big  fellow  worker  whom  he 
knew  in  New  Jersey.  The  Germans  reported  that  every 
one  of  their  men  in  the  Valley  was  out  and  working  in  his 
garden.  Over  and  over  young  girls  told  of  insults  they  had 
received.  A  mania  of  brutality  seemed  to  have  spread 
through  the  officers  of  the  law.  A  Scotch  miner's  daughter 
showed  a  tear  in  her  dress  made  by  a  soldier's  bayonet — 

"  'In  fun/  he  said,  but  I  could  see  na  joke." 

In  all  the  speeches  there  was  a  spirit  of  camaraderie — of 
fellowship,  of  love.  "We  are  one  blood  now,"  a  Danish 
miner  cried,  in  broken  English,  "we  are  all  Americans,  and 
America  will  be  a  brotherhood — a  brotherhood  in  the  De 
mocracy  of  Labor,  under  the  Prince  of  Peace."  A  great 
shout  arose  and  the  crowd  called: 

"Grant— Grant— Brother  Grant." 

But  he  stood  by  the  table  and  shook  his  head.  After  a 
girl  picket  and  a  woman — one  a  Welsh  girl,  the  other  a  Manx 
miner's  mother — had  told  how  they  were  set  upon  in  the 


GRANT  ADAMS  PREACHES  PEACE     559 

Park  by  the  soldiers,  up  rose  a  pale,  trembling  woman  from 
among  the  Hungarians,  her  brown,  blotched  face  and  her 
big  body  made  the  men  look  down  or  away.  She  spoke  in 
broken,  uncertain  English. 

"We  haf  send  to  picket  our  men  and  yet  our  boys,  and 
they  beat  them  down.  We  haf  our  girls  send,  and  they  come 
home  crying.  But  I  say  to  God  this  evening — Oh,  is  there 
nothing  for  me — for  me  carrying  child,  and  He  whisper  yais 
— these  soldiers,  he  haf  wife,  he  haf  mother."  She  paused 
and  shook  with  fear  and  shame.  "Then  I  say  to  you — 
call  home  your  man — your  girl  so  young,  and  we  go — we 
women  with  child — we  with  big  bellies,  filled  with  unborn 
— we  go — 0,  my  God,  He  say  we  go,  and  this  soldier — he 
haf  wife,  he  haf  mother — he  will  see; — we — we — they  will 
not  strike  us  down.  Send  us,  oh,  Grant,  Prince  of  Peace,  to 
the  picket  line  next  morning." 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  sat  down  covering  her  head  with 
her  skirt  and  weeping  in  excitement. 

"Let  me  go,"  cried  a  clear  voice,  as  a  brown-eyed  Welsh 
woman  rose.  "I  know  ten  others  that  will  go." 

"I  also,"  cried  a  German  woman.  "Let  us  organize  to 
night.  We  can  have  two  hundred  child-bearing  women!" 

"Yes,  men,"  spoke  up  a  trim-looking  young  wife  from 
among  the  glassworkers,  "we  of  old  have  been  sacred — let 
us  see  if  capital  holds  us  sacred  now — before  property." 

Grant  leaned  over  to  Laura  and  asked,  "Would  it  do? 
Wouldn't  they  shame  us  for  it?" 

The  eyes  of  Laura  Van  Dorn  were  filled  with  tears.  They 
were  streaming  down  her  face. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cried,  "no  deeper  symbol  of  peace  is  in 
the  earth  than  the  child-bearing  woman.  Let  her  go." 

Grant  Adams  rose  and  addressed  the  chair:  "Mr.  Chair 
man — I  move  that  all  men  and  all  women  except  those  chosen 
by  these  who  have  just  spoken,  be  asked  to  keep  out  of  the 
Park  to-morrow  morning,  that  all  the  world  may  know  how 
sacred  we  hold  this  cause  and  with  what  weapons  of  peace 
we  would  win  it." 

So  it  was  ordered,  and  the  crowd  sang  the  International 
Hymn  again,  and  then  the  Marseillaise,  and  went  home 
dreaming  high  dreams. 


560  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

As  Grant  and  Laura  walked  from  the  hall,  the  last  to  leave 
the  meeting,  after  the  women  had  finished  making  out  their 
list  of  pickets,  the  streets  were  empty  and  they  met — or 
rather  failed  to  meet,  Mrs.  Dick  Bowman,  with  Mugs  in  tow, 
who  crossed  the  street  obviously  to  avoid  Grant  and  his  com 
panion. 

Grant  and  Laura,  walking  briskly  along  and  planning  the 
next  day's  work,  passed  the  smelters  where  the  soldiers  were 
on  sentry  duty.  They  passed  the  shaft  houses  where  Harvey 
militiamen  were  bunked  and  guarded  by  sentinels.  They 
passed  the  habiliments  of  war  in  a  score  of  peaceful  places. 

"Grant,"  cried  Laura,  "I  really  think  now  we'll  win — 
that  the  strike  of  peace  will  prove  all  that  you  have  lived 
for." 

"But  if  we  fail,"  he  replied,  "it  proves  nothing — except 
perhaps  that  it  was  worth  trying,  and  will  be  worth  trying 
and  trying  and  trying — until  it  wins!" 

It  was  half  past  twelve.  Grant  Adams,  standing  before 
the  Vanderbilt  House,  talking  with  Henry  Fenn,  was  saying, 
"Well,  Henry,  one  week  of  this — one  week  of  peace — and 
the  triumph  of  peace  will  be — " 

A  terrific  explosion  shut  his  mouth.  Across  the  night  he 
saw  a  red  glare  a  few  hundred  feet  away.  An  instant  later 
it  was  dark  again.  He  ran  toward  the  place  where  the  glare 
had  winked  out.  As  he  turned  a  corner,  he  saw  stars  where 
there  should  have  been  shaft  house  No.  7  of  the  Wahoo  Fuel 
Company's  mines,  and  he  knew  that  it  had  been  destroyed_. 
In  it  were  a  dozen  sleeping  soldiers  of  the  Harvey  Militia 
Company,  and  it  flashed  through  his  mind  that  Lida  Bowman 
at  last  had  spoken. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

IN  WHICH  GRANT  ADAMS  AND  LAURA  VAN  DORN  TAKE  A  WALK 

DOWN   MARKET   STREET   AND  MRS.   NESBIT   ACQUIRES  A 

LONG    LOST    GRANDSON-IN-LAW 

GRANT  ADAMS  and  Henry  Fenn  were  among  the  first 
to  arrive  at  the  scene  of  the  explosion.  Henry  Fenn 
had  tried  to  stop  Grant  from  going  so  quickly,  think 
ing  his  presence  at  the  scene  would  raise  a  question  of  his 
guilt,  but  he  cried : 

''They  may  need  me,  Henry — come  on — what's  a  quibble 
of  guilt  when  a  life's  to  save?" 

When  they  came  to  the  pile  of  debris,  they  saw  Dick 
Bowman  coming  up — barefooted,  coatless  and  breathless. 
Grant  and  Fenn  had  run  less  than  fifteen  hundred  feet — Dick 
lived  a  mile  from  the  shaft  house.  Grant  Adams's  mind 
flashed  suspicion  toward  the  Bowmans.  He  went  to  Dick 
across  the  wreckage  and  said  : 

"Oh,  Dick — I'm  sorry  you  didn't  get  here  sooner." 

"So  am  I — so  am  I,"  cried  Dick,  craning  his  long  neck 
nervously. 

"Where  is  Mugs?"  asked  Grant,  as  the  two  worked  with 
a  beam  over  a  body — the  body  of  handsome  Fred  Kollander 
— lying  near  the  edge  of  the  litter. 

"He's  home  in  bed  and  asleep — and  so's  his  mother,  too, 
Grant,  sound  asleep." 

During  the  first  minutes  after  the  explosion,  men  near  by 
like  Grant  and  Fenn  came  running  to  the  scene  of  the 
wrecked  shaft  by  the  scores,  and  as  Grant  and  Dick  Bowman 
spoke  the  streets  grew  black  with  men,  workmen,  policemen, 
soldiers,  citizens,  men  by  the  hundreds  came  hurrying  up. 
The  great  siren  whistles  of  the  water  and  light  plants  began 
to  bellow ;  fire  bells  and  church  bells  up  in  Harvey  began  to 
ring,  and  Grant  knew  that  the  telephone  was  alarming  the 
town.  Ten  minutes  after  the  explosion,  while  Grant  was 

5G1 


562  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

ordering  his  men  in  the  crowd  to  organize  for  the  rescue,  a 
militia  colonel  appeared,  threw  a  cordon  of  men  about  the 
ruins  and  the  police  and  soldiers  took  charge,  forcing  Grant 
and  his  men  away.  The  first  few  moments  after  he  had  been 
thrust  out  of  the  relief  work,  Grant  spent  sending  his  men 
in  the  crowd  to  summon  the  members  of  the  Council;  then 
he  turned  and  hurried  to  his  office  in  the  Vanderbilt  House. 
For  an  hour  he  wrote.  Henry  Fenn  came,  and  later  Laura 
Van  Dorn  appeared,  but  he  waved  them  both  to  silence,  and 
without  telling  them  what  he  had  written  he  went  with 
them  to  the  hall  where  the  Valley  Council  was  waiting  in  a 
turmoil  of  excitement.  It  was  after  two  o'clock.  South 
Harvey  was  a  military  camp.  Thousands  of  citizens  from 
Harvey  were  hurrying  about.  As  he  passed  along  the  street, 
the  electric  lights  showed  him  little  groups  about  some  grief- 
stricken  parent  or  brother  or  sister  of  a  missing  militiaman. 
Automobiles  were  roaring  through  the  streets  carrying  offi 
cers,  policemen,  prominent  citizens  of  Harvey.  Ahab  Wright 
and  Joe  Calvin  and  Kyle  Perry  were  in  a  car  with  John 
Kollander  who  had  come  down  to  South  Harvey  to  claim  the 
body  of  his  son,  Fred.  Grant  saw  the  Sands 's  car  with  Morty 
in  it  supporting  a  stricken  soldier.  The  car  was  halted  at  the 
corner  by  the  press  of  traffic,  and  as  Grant  and  Laura  and 
Henry  passed,  Morty  said  under  the  din:  " Grant — Grant, 
be  careful — they  are  turning  Heaven  and  earth  to  find  your 
hand  in  this;  it  will  be  only  a  matter  of  days — maybe  only 
hours,  until  they  will  have  their  witnesses  hired!" 

Grant  nodded.  The  car  moved  on  and  Grant  and  his 
friends  pressed  through  the  throng  to  the  hall  where  the 
Valley  Council  was  waiting.  There  Grant  stood  and  read 
what  he  had  written.  It  ran  thus : 

"For  the  death  by  dynamite  of  the  militiamen  who 
perished  at  midnight  in  shaft  No.  7  of  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Com 
pany 's  mines,  I  take  full  responsibility.  I  have  assumed  a 
leadership  in  a  strike  which  caused  these  deaths.  I  shirk  no 
whit  of  my  share  in  this  outrage.  Yet  I  preached  only  peace. 
I  pleaded  for  orderly  conduct.  I  appealed  to  the  workers  to 
take  their  own  not  by  force  of  arms  but  by  the  tremendous 
force  of  moral  right.  That  ten  thousand  workers  respected 
this  appeal,  I  am  exceedingly  proud.  That  one  out  of 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  563 

all  the  ten  thousand  was  not  convinced  of  the  justice  of  our 
cause  and  the  ultimate  triumph  by  the  force  of  righteousness 
I  am  sorry  beyond  words.  1  call  upon  my  comrades  to  wit 
ness  what  a  blow  to  our  cause  this  murder  has  been  and  to 
stand  tirm  in  the  faith  that  the  strike  must  win  by  ways  of 
peace. 

"Yet,  whoever  did  this  deed  was  not  entirely  to  blame — 
however  it  may  cripple  his  fellow-workers.  A  child  mangled 
in  the  mines  denied  his  legal  damages ;  men  clubbed  for  tell 
ing  of  their  wrongs  to  their  fellow-laborers  who  were  asked 
to  fill  their  places;  women  on  the  picket  line,  herded  like 
deer  through  the  park  by  Cossacks  whipping  the  fleeing  crea 
tures  mercilessly;  these  things  inflamed  the  mind  of  the  man 
who  set  off  the  bomb;  these  things  had  their  share  in  the 
murder. 

"But  I  knew  what  strikes  were.  I  know  indeed  what 
strikes  still  are  and  what  this  strike  may  be.  I  sorrow  with 
those  families  whose  boys  perished  by  the  bomb  in  shaft  house 
No.  7.  I  grieve  with  the  families  of  those  who  have  been 
beaten  and  broken  in  this  strike.  But  by  all  this  innocent 
blood — blood  shed  by  the  working  people — blood  shed  by 
those  who  ignorantly  misunderstand  us,  I  now  beg  you,  my 
comrades,  to  stand  firm  in  this  strike.  Let  not  this  blood  be 
shed  in  vain.  It  may  be  indeed  that  the  men  of  the  master 
class  here  have  not  descended  as  deeply  as  we  may  expect 
them  to  descend.  They  may  feel  that  more  blood  must  be 
spilled  before  they  let  us  come  into  our  own.  But  if  blood 
is  shed  again,  we  must  bleed,  but  let  it  not  be  upon  our 
hands. 

"Again,  even  in  this  breakdown  of  our  high  hopes  for  a 
strike  without  violence,  I  lift  my  voice  in  faith,  I  hail  the 
coming  victory,  I  proclaim  that  the  day  of  the  Democracy 
of  Labor  is  at  hand,  and  it  shall  come  in  peace  and  good 
will  to  all." 

When  he  had  finished  reading  his  statement,  he  sat  down 
and  the  Valley  Council  began  to  discuss  it.  Many  objected 
to  it;  others  wished  to  have  it  modified;  still  others  agreed 
that  it  should  be  published  as  he  had  read  it.  In  the  end, 
he  had  his  way.  But  in  the  hubbub  of  the  discussion,  Laura 
Van  Dorn,  sitting  near  him,  asked : 


564  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

" Grant,  why  do  you  take  all  this  on  your  shoulders?  It 
is  not  fair,  and  it  is  not  true — for  that  matter. ' ' 

He  answered  finally:  "Well,  that's  what  I  propose  to 
do." 

He  was  haggard  and  careworn  and  he  stared  at  the  woman 
beside  him  with  determination  in  his  eyes.  But  she  would 
not  give  up.  Again  she  insisted :  *  *  The  people  are  inflamed 
— terribly  inflamed  and  in  the  morning  they  will  be  in  110 
mood  for  this.  It  may  put  you  in  jail — put  you  where  you 
are  powerless." 

He  turned  upon  her  the  stubborn,  emotional  face  that  she 
rarely  had  seen  but  had  always  dreaded.  He  answered  her : 

"If  anything  were  to  be  gained  for  the  comrades  by  wait 
ing — I'd  wait."  Then  his  jaws  closed  in  decision  as  he  said: 
"Laura,  that  deed  was  done  in  blind  rage  by  one  who  once 
risked  his  life  to  save  mine.  Then  he  acted  not  blindly 
but  in  the  light  of  a  radiance  from  the  Holy  Ghost  in  his 
heart !  If  I  can  help  him  now — can  even  share  his  shame 
with  him — I  should  do  it.  And  in  this  case — I  think  it  wifl 
help  the  cause  to  make  a  fair  confession  of  our  weakness. ' ' 

"But,  Grant,"  cried  the  woman,  "Grant — can't  you  see 
that  the  murder  of  these  boys — these  Harvey  boys,  the  boys 
whose  mothers  and  fathers  and  sweethearts  and  young  wives 
and  children  are  going  about  the  streets  as  hourly  witnesses 
against  you  and  our  fellow-workers  here — will  arouse  a  mob 
spirit  that  is  dangerous?" 

"Yes — I  see  that.  But  if  anything  can  quell  the  mob 
spirit,  frank,  open-hearted  confession  will  do  it."  He 
brushed  aside  her  further  protests  and  in  another  instant 
was  on  his  feet  defending  his  statement  to  the  Valley  Coun 
cil.  Ten  minutes  later  the  reporters  had  it. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  posters  covered  South  Harvey 
and  the  whole  district  proclaiming  martial  law.  They  were 
signed  by  Joseph  Calvin,  Jr.,  provost  marshal,  and  they 
denied  the  right  of  assembly,  except  upon  written  order  of 
the  provost  marshal,  declared  that  incendiary  speech  would 
be  stopped,  forbade  parades  except  under  the  provost  mar 
shal's  inspection,  and  said  that  offenders  would  be  tried  by 
court-martial  for  all  disobediences  to  the  orders  of  the  proc 
lamation.  The  proclamation  was  underscored  in  its  re- 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  565 

quirements  that  no  meeting  of  any  kind  might  be  held  in 
the  district  or  on  any  lot  or  in  any  building  except  upon 
written  consent  of  the  owner  of  the  lot  or  building  and  with 
the  permission  of  the  provost  marshal.  Belgian  Hall  was  a 
rented  hall,  and  the  Wahoo  Fuel  Company  controlled  most  of 
the  available  town  lots,  leaving  only  the  farms  of  the  work 
ers,  that  were  planted  thick  with  gardens,  for  even  the  most 
inoffensive  meeting. 

And  at  ten  o'clock  Grant  Adams  had  signed  a  counter 
proclamation  declaring  that  the  proclamation  of  martial  law 
in  a  time  of  peace  was  an  usurpation  of  the  constitutional 
rights  of  American  citizens,  and  that  they  must  refuse  to 
recognize  any  authority  that  abridged  the  right  of  free  as 
semblage,  a  free  press,  free  speech  and  a  trial  by  jury. 
Amos  Adams  sent  the  workers  an  invitation  to  meet  in  the 
grove  below  his  house.  Grant  called  a  meeting  for  half -past 
twelve  at  the  Adams  homestead.  It  was  a  direct  challenge. 

The  noon  extra  edition  of  the  Times,  under  the  caption, 
"The  Governor  Is  Right,"  contained  this  illuminating  edi 
torial  : 

"Seven  men  dead — dynamited  to  death  by  Grant  Adams;  seven  men 
dead — the  flower  of  the  youth  of  Harvey;  seven  men  dead  for  no  crime 
but  serving  their  country,  and  Grant  Adams  loose,  poisoning  the 
minds  of  his  dupes,  prating  about  peace  in  public  and  plotting  cowardly 
assassination  in  private.  Of  course,  the  Governor  was  right.  Every 
good  citi/en  of  this  country  will  commend  him  for  prompt  and  vigor 
ous  action.  In  less  than  an  hour  after  the  bomb  had  sent  the  seven 
men  of  the  Harvey  Home  Guards  to  eternity,  the  Governor  had  pro 
claimed  martial  law  in  this  district,  and  from  now  on,  no  more  in 
cendiary  language,  no  more  damnable  riots,  miscalled  parades  will 
menace  property,  and  no  more  criminal  acts  done  under  the  cover  of  the 
jury  system  will  disgrace  this  community  under  the  leadership  of  this 
creature  Adams. 

"In  his  manifesto  pulingly  taking  the  blame  for  a  crime  last  night 
so  obviously  his  that  mere  denial  would  add  blood  to  the  crime  itself, 
Adams  says  in  extenuation  that  'women  were  herded  before  the  Cos 
sacks  like  deer  in  the  park,'  while  they  were  picketing.  But  he  does 
not  say  that  in  the  shameful  cowardice  so  characteristic  of  his  leader 
ship  in  this  labor  war,  he  forced,  by  his  own  motion,  women  unfit  to 
be  seen  in  public,  much  less  to  fight  his  battles,  under  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses  in  Sands  Park  this  morning,  and  if  the  Greek  woman,  who 
claims  she  was  dragooned  should  die,  the  fault,  the  crime  of  her  death 
in  revolting  circumstances,  will  be  upon  Grant  Adams's  hands. 

"When  such  a  leader  followed  by  blind  zealots  like  the  riff-raff  who 


566  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

are  insanely  trailing  after  this  Mad  Mullah  who  claims  divine  powers 
— save  the  mark — when  such  leaders  and  such  human  vermin  as  these 
rise  in  a  community,  the  people  who  own  property,  who  have  built  up 
the  community,  who  have  spent  their  lives  making  Harvey  the  proud 
industrial  center  that  she  is — the  people  who  own  property,  \ve  repeat, 
should  organize  to  protect  it.  The  Governor  suspending  while  this 
warlike  state  exists  the  right  of  anarchists  who  turn  it  against  law 
and  order,  the  right  of  assembling,  and  speech  and  trial  by  jury, 
has  set  a  good  example.  We  hear  from  good  authority  that  the  Adams 
anarchists  are  to  be  aided  by  another  association  even  more  reckless 
than  he  and  his,  and  that  Greeley  county  will  be  flooded  by  bums  and 
thugs  and  plug-uglies  who  will  fill  our  jails  and  lay  the  burden  of 
heavy  taxes  upon  our  people  pretending  to  defend  the  rights  of  free 
speech 

"A  law  and  order  league  should  be  organized  among  the  business 
men  of  Harvey  to  rid  the  county  of  these  rats  breeding  social  disease, 
and  if  courageous  hearts  are  needed,  and  extraordinary  methods  neces 
sary — all  honest  people  will  uphold  the  patriots  who  rally  to  this 


At  twelve  o'clock  crowds  of  working  people  began  to  swarm 
into  Adams's  grove.  Five  hundred  horsemen  were  lined 
up  at  the  gate.  Around  a  temporary  speaker 's  stand  a  squad 
of  policemen  was  formed.  The  crowd  stood  waiting.  Grant 
Adams  did  not  appear.  The  crowd  grew  restless;  it  began 
to  fear  that  he  had  been  arrested,  that  there  had  been  some 
mishap.  Laura  Van  Dorn,  sensing  the  uncertainty  and  dis 
couragement  of  the  crowd,  decided  to  try  to  hold  it.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  she  watched  the  uneasiness  rising  slowly 
to  impatience  in  the  men  and  women  about  her,  that  it  was 
of  much  importance — tremendous  importance  indeed — to 
hold  these  people  to  their  faith,  not  especially  in  Grant, 
though  to  her  that  seemed  necessary,  too,  but  at  bottom  to 
hold  their  faith  firm  in  themselves,  in  their  own  powers  to 
better  themselves,  to  rise  of  their  own  endeavors,  to  build 
upon  themselves !  So  she  walked  quickly  to  the  policeman 
before  the  steps  leading  to  the  stand  and  said  smilingly : 

"Pardon  me,"  and  stepped  behind  him  and  was  on  the 
stand  before  he  realized  that  he  had  been  fooled.  Her  white- 
clad  figure  upon  the  platform  attracted  a  thousand  eyes  in  a 
second,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  speaking : 

' '  I  am  here  to  defend  our  ancient  rights  of  meeting,  speak 
ing,  and  trial  by  jury. ' '  A  policeman  started  for  her.  She 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  567 

smiled  and  waved  him  back  with  such  a  dignity  of  mien 
that  her  very  manner  stopped  him. 

When  he  hesitated,  knowing  that  she  was  a  person  of  conse 
quence  in  Harvey,  she  went  on:  "No  cause  can  thrive  until 
it  maintains  anew  its  right  to  speech,  to  assemble  and  to 
have  its  day  in  court  before  a  jury.  Every  cause  must  tight 
this  world-old  fight — and  then  if  it  is  a  just  cause,  when  it 
has  won  those  ancient  rights — which  are  riot  rights  at  all  but 
are  merely  ancient  battle  grounds  on  which  every  cause  must 
fight,  then  any  cause  may  stand  a  chance  to  win.  I  think  we 
should  make  it  clear  now  that  as  free-born  Americans,  no 
one  has  a  right  to  stop  us  from  meeting  and  speaking ;  no  one 
has  a  right  to  deny  us  jury  trials.  I  believe  the  time  has 
come  when  we  should  ignore  rather  definitely — "  she  paused, 
and  turned  to  the  policeman  standing  beside  her,  "we  should 
ignore  rather  finally  this  proclamation  of  the  provost  marshal 
and  should  insist  rather  firmly  that  he  shall  try  to  enforce  it." 

A  policeman  stepped  suddenly  and  menacingly  toward 
her.  She  did  not  flinch.  The  dignity  of  five  generations  of 
courtly  Satterthwaites  rose  in  her  as  she  gazed  at  the  clumsy 
officer.  She  saw  Grant  Adams  coming  up  at  a  side  entrance 
to  the  grove.  The  policeman  stopped.  She  desired  to  divert 
the  policeman  and  the  crowd  from  Grant  Adams.  The  crowd 
tittering  at  the  quick  halt  of  the  policeman,  angered  him. 
Again  he  stepped  toward  her.  His  face  was  reddening. 
The  Satterthwaiie  dignity  mounted,  but  the  Nesbit  mind 
guided  her,  and  she  said  coldly:  "All  right,  sir,  but  you 
must  club  me.  I'll  not  give  up  my  rights  here  so  easily." 

Three  officers  made  a  rush  for  her,  grabbed  her  by  the 
arms,  and,  struggling,  she  went  otY  the  platform,  but  she 
left  Grant  Adams  standing  upon  it  and  a  cheering  crowd 
saw  the  ruse. 

"I'm  here,"  he  boomed  out  in  his  great  voice,  "because 
'the  woods  were  man's  first  temples'  and  we'll  hold  them  for 
that  sacred  right  to-day."  The  police  were  waiting  for  him 
to  put  his  toe  across  the  line  of  defiance.  "We'll  transgress 
this  order  of  little  Joe  Calvin's — why,  he  might  as  well  post 
a  trespass  notice  against  snowslides  as  against  this  forward 
moving  cause  of  labor."  His  voice  rose,  "I'm  here  to  tell 


568  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

you  that  under  your  rights  as  citizens  of  this  Republic,  and 
under  your  rights  in  the  coming  Democracy  of  Labor,  I  bid 
you  tear  up  these  martial  law  proclamations  to  kindle  fires 
in  your  stoves." 

He  glared  at  the  policemen  and  held  up  his  hand  to  stop 
them  as  they  came.  "Listen,"  he  cried,  "I'm  going  to  give 
you  better  evidence  than  that  against  me.  I,  as  the  leader 
of  this  strike — take  this  down,  Mr.  Stenographer,  there — 
I'll  say  it  slowly;  I,  as  the  leader  of  this  movement  of 
the  Democracy  of  Labor,  as  the  preacher  preaching  the  era 
of  good  will  and  comradeship  all  over  the  earth,  bid  you, 
my  fellow-workers,  meet  to  preach  Christ's  workingman's 
gospel  wherever  you  can  hire  a  hall  or  rent  a  lot,  to  pa 
rade  your  own  streets,  and  to  bare  your  heads  to  clubs  and 
your  breasts  to  bullets  if  need  be  to  restore  in  this  district  the 
right  of  trial  by  jury  in  times  of  peace.  And  now," — the 
crowd  roared  its  approval.  He  glared  defiance  at  the  police 
men.  He  raised  his  voice  above  the  din,  "And  now  I  want 
to  tell  you  something  more.  Our  property  in  these  mills  and 
mines — "  again  the  crowd  bellowed  its  joyous  approval  of  his 
words  and  Grant's  face  lighted  madly,  "our  property — the 
property  we  have  earned,  we  must  guard  against  the  vio 
lence  of  the  very  master  class  themselves;  for  under  this  in 
fernal  Russian  ukase  of  little  Joe  Calvin,  the  devil  only 
knows  what  arson  and  loot  and  murder — "  the  crowd  howled 
wildly;  a  policeman  blew  his  whistle  and  when  the  melee  was 
over  Grant  Adams  was  in  the  midst  of  the  blue-coated  squad 
marching  toward  the  gate. 

At  the  gate,  on  a  pawing  white  horse,  sat  young  Joe 
Calvin.  The  crowd,  following  the  officers,  came  upon  the 
first  squad  of  policemen — the  squad  that  took  Laura  Van 
Dorn  from  the  stand.  The  two  squads  joined  with  their  pris 
oners,  and  back  of  the  officers  came  the  yelling,  hooting 
crowd,  pushing  the  officers  along.  As  the  officers  came  up, 
the  provost  marshal  cried: 

"Turn  them  over  to  my  men  here.  Men,  handcuff  them 
together."  In  an  instant  it  was  done. 

Then  the  cavalry  formed  in  two  lines,  and  between  them 
marched  Laura  Van  Dorn  and  Grant  Adams,  manacled  to 
gether.  Up  through  the  weed-grown  commons  between  South 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  569 

Harvey  and  the  big  town  they  marched  under  the  broiling- 
sun.  The  crowd  trudged  after  them — trailing  behind  for 
the  most  part,  but  often  running  along  by  the  horsemen 
and  calling  words  of  sympathy  to  Grant  or  reviling  the 
soldiers. 

Down  Market  Street  they  all  came — soldiers,  prisoners 
and  straggling  crowd.  The  town,  prepared  by  telephone  for 
the  sight,  stood  on  the  streets  and  hurrahed  for  Joe  Calvin. 
He  had  brought  in  his  game,  and  if  one  trophy  was  a  trifle 
out  of  caste  for  a  prisoner,  a  bit  above  her  station,  so  much 
the  worse  for  her.  The  blood  of  the  seven  dead  soldiers  was 
crying  for  vengeance  in  Harvey — the  middle-class  nerve  had 
been  touched  to  the  quick — and  Market  Street  hooted  at  the 
prisoners,  and  hailed  Joe  Calvin  on  his  white  charger  as  a 
hero  of  the  day. 

For  the  mind  of  a  crowd  is  a  simple  mind.  It  draws  no 
fine  distinctions.  It  has  no  memory.  It  enjoys  primitive 
emotions,  and  takes  the  most  rudimentary  pleasures.  The 
mind  of  the  crowd  on  Market  Street  in  Harvey  that  bright, 
hot  June  day,  when  Joe  Calvin  on  his  white  steed  at  the 
head  of  his  armed  soldiers  led  Grant  Adams  and  Laura  Van 
Dorn  up  the  street  to  the  court  house,  saw  as  plainly  as  any 
crowd  could  see.  anything  that  Grant  Adams  was  the  slayer 
of  seven  mangled  men,  whose  torn  bodies  the  crowd  had  seen 
at  the  undertaker's.  It  saw  death  and  violation  of  property 
rights  as  the  fruit  of  Grant  Adams's  revolution,  and  if  this 
woman,  who  was  of  Market  Street  socially,  cared  to  lower  her 
self  to  the  level  of  assassins  and  thugs,  she  was  getting  only 
her  deserts. 

So  Grant  and  Laura  passed  through  the  ranks  of  men  and 
women  whom  they  knew  and  saw  eyes  turned  away  that 
might  have  recognized  them,  saw  faces  averted  to  whom  they 
might  have  looked  for  sympathy — and  saw  what  power  on  a 
white  horse  can  make  of  a  mediocre  man! 

But  Grant  was  not  interested  in  power  on  a  white  horse, 
nor  was  he  interested  in  the  woman  who  marched  with  him. 
His  face  kept  turning  to  the  crowd  from  South  Harvey  that- 
straggled  beside  him  outside  of  the  line  of  horsemen  about 
him.  Now  and  then  Grant  caught  the  eyes  of  a  leader  or  of  a 
friend  and  to  such  a  one  he  would  speak  some  earnest  word 


570  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

of  cheer  or  give  some  belated  order  or  message.  Only  once 
did  Laura  divert  him  from  the  stragglers  along  the  way.  It 
was  when  Ahab  Wright  ducked  his  head  and  drew  down  his 
office  window  in  the  second  story  of  the  Wright  &  Perry 
building.  ' '  At  least, ' '  said  Laura,  "  it 's  a  lesson  worth  learn 
ing  in  human  nature.  I'll  know  how  much  a  smile  is  worth 
after  this  or  the  mere  nod  of  a  head.  Not  that  I  need  it 
to  sustain  me,  Grant,"  she  went  on  seriously,  "so  far  as 
I'm  concerned,  but  I  can  feel  how  it  would  be  to — well,  to 
some  one  who  needed  it." 

Under  the  murmur  of  the  crowd,  Laura  continued:  "I 
know  exactly  with  what  emotion  pretty  little  Mrs.  Joe  Calvin 
will  hear  of  this  episode." 

"What?"  queried  Grant  absently.  His  attention  left  her 
again,  for  the  men  from  South  Harvey  at  whom  he  was  di 
recting  volts  of  courage  from  his  blazing  eyes. 

"Well — she'll  be  scared  to  death  for  fear  mother  and  I 
will  cut  her  socially  for  it!  She's  dying  to  get  into  the 
inner  circle,  and  she'll  abuse  little  Joe  for  this — which," 
smiled  Laura,  "will  be  my  revenge,  and  will  be  badly  needed 
by  little  Joe."  But  she  was  talking  to  deaf  ears. 

A  street  car  halted  them  before  Brotherton's  store  for  a 
minute.  Grant  looked  anxiously  in  the  door  way,  and  saw 
only  Miss  Calvin,  who  turned  away  her  head,  after  smiling 
at  her  brother. 

"I  wonder  where  George  can  be?"  asked  Grant. 

"Don't  you  know?"  replied  Laura,  looking  wonderingly 
at  him.  "There's  a  little  boy  at  their  house!" 

The  crowd  was  hooting  and  cheering  and  the  procession 
was  just  ready  to  turn  into  the  court  house  corner,  when 
Grant  felt  Laura's  quick  hand  clasp.  Grant  was  staring  at 
Kenyon,  white  and  wild-eyed,  standing  near  them  on  the 
curb. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  see  the  poor  kid." 

"No — no,"  she  cried,  "look  down  the  block — see  that  elec 
tric!  There  comes  father,  bringing  mother  back  from  the 
depot —  Oh,  Grant — I  don't  mind  for  me,  I  don't  mind 
much  for  father — but  mother — won 't  some  one  turn  them  up 
that  street!  Oh,  Grant— Grant,  look!" 

Less  than  one  hundred  feet  before  them  the  electric  run- 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  571 

about  was  beginning  to  wobble  unsteadily.  The  guiding 
hand  was  trembling  and  nervous.  Mrs.  Nesbit,  leaning  for 
ward  with  horror  in  her  face,  was  clutching  at  her  husband's 
arm,  forgetful  of  the  danger  she  was  running.  The  old 
Doctor's  eyes  were  wide  and  staring.  He  bore  unsteadily 
down  upon  the  procession,  and  a  few  feet  from  the  head  of 
the  line,  he  jumped  from  the  machine.  He  was  an  old  man, 
and  every  year  of  his  seventy-five  years  dragged  at  his  legs, 
and  clutched  his  shaking  arms. 

'  *  Joe  Calvin — you  devil, ' '  he  screamed,  and  drew  back  his 
cane,  "let  her  go — let  her  go." 

The  crowd  stood  mute.  A  blow  from  the  cane  cracked 
on  the  young  legs  as  the  Doctor  cried : 

"Oh,  you  coward — "  and  again  lifted  his  cane.  Joe  Cal 
vin  tried  to  back  the  prancing  horse  away.  The  blow  hit 
the  horse  on  the  face,  and  it  reared,  and  for  a  second,  while 
the  crowd  looked  away  in  horror,  lunged  above  the  helpless 
old  man.  Then,  losing  balance,  the  great  white  horse  fell 
upon  the  Doctor;  but  as  the  hoofs  grazed  his  face,  Kenyon 
Adams  had  the  old  man  round  the  waist  and  flung  him  aside. 
But  Kenyon  went  down  under  the  horse.  Calvin  turned  his 
horse;  some  one  picked  up  the  fainting  youth,  and  he  was 
beside  Mrs.  Nesbit  in  the  car  a  moment  later,  a  limp,  un 
conscious  thing.  Grant  and  Laura  ran  to  the  car.  Dr. 
Nesbit  stood  dazed  and  impotent — an  old  man  whose  glory 
was  of  yesterday — a  weak  old  man,  scorned  and  helpless.  He 
turned  away  trembling  with  a  nervous  palsy,  and  when  he 
reached  the  side  of  the  machine,  his  daughter,  trying  to  hide 
her  manacled  hand,  kissed  him  and  said  soothingly : 

"It's  all  right,  father — young  Joe's  vexed  at  something 
I  said  down  in  the  Valley;  he'll  get  over  it  in  an  hour. 
Then  I'll  come  home." 

"And,"  gasped  Mrs.  Nesbit,  "he — that  whippersnapper," 
she  gulped,  "dared — to  lay  hands  on  you ;  to — ' 

Laura  shook  her  head,  to  stop  her  mother  from  speaking 
of  the  handcuff, — "to  make  you  walk  through  Market  Street 
— while,"  but  she  could  get  no  further.  The  crowd  sur 
rounded  them.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  jostling  and  mill 
ing,  the  Doctor's  instinct  rose  stronger  than  his  rage.  He 
was  fumbling  for  his  medicine  case,  and  trying  to  find  some- 


572  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

thing  for  Kenyon.  The  old  hands  were  at  the  young  pulse, 
and  he  said  unsteadily : 

' '  He  '11  be  around  in  a  few  minutes. ' ' 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  offered  a  big  automobile.  The 
Doctor  got  in,  waved  to  his  daughter,  and  followed  Mrs. 
Nesbit  up  the  hill. 

* '  You  young  upstart, ' '  he  cried,  shaking  his  fist  at  Calvin 
as  the  car  turned  around,  "I'll  be  down  in  ten  minutes  and 
see  to  you!"  The  provost  marshal  turned  his  white  steed 
and  began  gathering  up  his  procession  and  his  prisoners. 
But  the  spell  was  broken.  The  mind  of  the  crowd  took  in  an 
idea.  It  was  that  a  shameful  thing  was  happening  to  a 
woman.  So  it  hissed  young  Joe  Calvin.  Such  is  the  grati 
tude  of  republics. 

In  the  court  house,  the  provost  marshal,  sitting  behind  an 
imposing  desk,  decided  that  he  would  hold  Mrs.  Van  Dora 
under  $100  bond  to  keep  the  peace  and  release  her  upon  her 
own  recognizance. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "Little  Joe,  I'll  sign  no  peace  bond, 
and  if  it  wasn't  for  my  parents — I'd  make  you  lock  me  up." 

Her  hand  was  free  as  she  spoke.  "As  it  is — I'm  going 
back  to  South  Harvey.  I'll  be  there  until  this  strike  is  set 
tled;  you'll  have  no  trouble  in  finding  me."  She  hurried 
home.  As  she  approached  the  house,  she  saw  in  the  yard 
and  on  the  veranda,  groups  of  sympathetic  neighbors.  In 
the  hall  way  were  others.  Laura  hurried  into  the  Doctor's 
little  office  just  as  he  was  setting  Kenyon 's  broken  leg  and 
had  begun  to  bind  the  splints  upon  it.  Kenyon  lay  uncon 
scious.  Mrs.  Nesbit  and  Lila  hovered  over  him,  each  with 
her  hands  full  of  surgical  bandages,  and  cotton  and  medicine. 
Mrs.  Nesbit 's  face  was  drawn  and  anxious. 

"Oh,  mamma — mamma — I'm  so  sorry — so  sorry — you  had 
to  see."  The  proud  woman  looked  up  from  her  work  and 
sniffed : 

"That  whippersnapper — that — that — "  she  did  not  finish. 
The  Doctor  drew  his  daughter  to  him  and  kissed  her.  ' '  Oh, 
my  poor  little  girl — they  wouldn't  have  done  that  ten  years 
ago—" 

"Father,"  interrupted  the  daughter,  "is  Kenyon  all 
right?" 


A  WALK  DOWN  MARKET  STREET  573 

1 '  Just  one  little  bone  broken  in  his  leg.  He  '11  be  out  from 
under  the  ether  in  a  second.  But  I'll — Oh,  I'll  make  that 
Calvin  outfit  sweat;  I'll—" 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,  father — little  Joe  doesn't  know  any 
better.  Mamma  can  just  forget  to  invite  his  wife  to  our  next 
party — which  I  won 't  let  her  do- — not  even  that — but  it  would 
avenge  my  wrongs  a  thousand  times  over. ' ' 

Lila  had  Kenyon  's  hand,  and  Mrs.  Nesbit  was  rubbing  his 
brow,  when  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled.  Laura  and  the 
Doctor,  knowing  their  wife  and  mother,  had  left  her  and 
Lila  together  with  the  awakening  lover.  His  eyes  first  caught 
Mrs.  Nesbit 's  who  bent  over  him  and  whispered: 

"Oh,  my  brave,  brave  boy — my  noble — chivalrous  son — " 

Kenyon  smiled  and  his  great  black  eyes  looked  into  the 
elder  woman's  as  he  clutched  Lila's  hand. 

' l  Lila, ' '  he  said  feebly,  ' '  where  is  it — run  and  get  it. ' ' 

"Oh,  it's  up  in  my  room,  grandma — wait  a  minute — it's 
up  in  my  room."  She  scurried  out  of  the  door  and  came 
dancing  down  the  stairs  in  a  moment  with  a  jewel  on  her 
finger.  The  grandmother's  eyes  were  wet,  and  she  bent  over 
and  kissed  the  young,  full  lips  into  which  life  was  flowing 
back  so  beautifully. 

"Now — me!"  cried  Lila,  and  as  she,  too,  bent  down  she 
felt  the  great,  strong  arms  of  her  grandmother  enfolding  her 
in  a  mighty  hug.  There,  in  due  course,  the  Doctor  and 
Laura  found  them.  A  smile,  the  first  that  had  wreathed  his 
wrinkled  face  for  an  hour,  twitched  over  the  loose  skin  about 
his  old  lips  and  eyes. 

"The  Lord,"  he  piped,  "moves  in  a  mysterious  way — my 
dear — and  if  Laura  had  to  go  to  jail  to  bring  it — the  Lord 
giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away — blessed  be — " 

"Well,  Kenyon,"  the  grandmother  interrupted  the  Doc 
tor,  stooping  to  put  her  fingers  lovingly  upon  his  brow,  "we 
owe  everything  to  you;  it  was  fine  and  courageous  of  you, 
son!" 

And  with  the  word  "son"  the  Doctor  knew  and  Laura 
knew,  and  Lila  first  of  all  knew  that  Bedelia  Nesbit  had 
surrendered.  And  Kenyon  read  it  in  Lila's  eyes.  Then 
they  all  fell  to  telling  Kenyon  what  a  grand  youth  he  was 
and  how  he  had  saved  the  Doctor's  life,  and  it  ended  as  those 


574  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

things  do,  most  undramatically,  in  a  chorus  of  what  I  saids, 
and  you  saids  to  me,  and  I  thought,  and  you  did,  and  he 
should  have  done,  until  the  party  wore  itself  out  and  thought 
of  Lila,  sitting  by  her  lover,  holding  his  hands.  And  then 
what  with  a  pantomime  of  eyes  from  Laura  and  the  Doctor 
to  Mrs.  Nesbit,  and  what  with  an  empty  room  in  a  big  house, 
with  voices  far — exceedingly  far — obviously  far  away,  it 
ended  with  them  as  all  journeys  through  this  weary  world 
end,  and  must  end  if  the  world  wags  on. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

WHEREIN  WE  ERECT   A  HOUSE   BUILT   UPON   A  ROCK 

THAT  evening  in  the  late  twilight,  two  women  stood  at 
the  wicket  of  a  cell  in  the  jail  and  while  back  of  the 
women,  at  the  end  of  a  corridor,  stood  a  curious  group 
of  reporters  and  idlers  and  guards,  inside  the  wicket  a  tall, 
middle-aged  man  with  stiff,  curly,  reddish  hair  and  a  homely, 
hard,  forbidding  face  stood  behind  the  bars.  The  young 
woman  put  her  hand  with  the  new  ring  on  it  through  the 
wicket. 

"It's  Kenyon's  ring — Kenyon's,"  smiled  Lila,  and  to  his 
questioning  look  at  her  mother,  the  daughter  answered: 
"Yes,  grandma  knows.  And  what  is  more,  grandpa  told 
us  both — Kenyon  and  me — what  was  bothering  grandma — 
and  it's  all— all— right !" 

The  happy  eyes  of  Laura  Van  Dorn  caught  the  eyes  of 
Grant  as  they  gazed  at  her  from  some  distant  landscape  of  his 
turbulent  soul.  She  could  not  hold  his  eyes,  nor  bring  them 
to  a  serious  consideration  of  the  occasion.  His  heart  seemed 
to  be  on  other  things.  So  the  woman  said:  "God  is  good, 
Grant. "  She  watched  her  daughter  and  cast  a  glance  at  the 
shining  ring.  Grant  Adams  heard  and  saw,  but  while  he 
comprehended  definitely  enough,  what  he  saw  and  heard 
seemed  remote  and  he  repeated : 

"God  is  good — infinitely  good,  Laura!"  His  eyes  lighted 
up.  "Do  you  know  this  is  the  first  strike  in  the  world — I 
believe,  indeed  the  first  enterprise  in  the  world  started  and 
conducted  upon  the  fundamental  theory  that  we  are  all  gods. 
Nothing  but  the  divine  spark  in  those  men  would  hold  them 
as  they  are  held  in  faith  and  hope  and  fellowship.  Look  at 
them,"  he  lifted  his  face  as  one  seeing  Heavenly  legions, 
"ten  thousand  souls,  men  and  women  and  children,  cheated 
for  years  of  their  rights,  and  when  they  ask  for  them  in 

575 


576  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

peace,  beaten  and  clubbed  and  killed,  and  still  they  do  not 
raise  their  hands  in  violence !  Oh,  I  tell  you,  they  are  get 
ting  ready — the  time  must  be  near."  He  shook  his  head  in 
exultation  and  waved  his  iron  claw. 

Laura  said  gently,  "Yes,  Grant,  but  the  day  always  is  near. 
Whenever  two  or  three  are  gathered — 

"Oh,  yes — yes,"  he  returned,  brushing  her  aside,  "I  know 
that.  Arid  it  has  come  to  me  lately  that  the  day  of  the 
democracy  is  a  spiritual  and  not  a  material  order.  It  must 
be  a  rising  level  of  souls  in  the  world,  and  the  mere  dawn 
of  the  day  will  last  through  centuries.  But  it  will  be  none 
theless  beautiful  because  it  shall  come  slowly.  The  great 
thing  is  to  know  that  we  are  all — the  wops  and  dagoes  and 
the  hombres  and  the  guinnies — all  gods!  to  know  that  in 
all  of  us  burns  that  divine  spark  which  environment  can  fan 
or  stifle — that  divine  spark  which  makes  us  one  with  the 
infinite  ! ' '  He  threw  his  face  upward  as  one  who  saw  a  vision 
and  cried:  "And  America — our  America  that  they  think  is 
so  sordid,  so  crass,  so  debauched  with  materialism — what  fools 
they  are  to  think  it !  From  all  over  the  world  for  three  hun 
dred  years  men  and  women  have  been  hurrying  to  this  coun 
try  who  above  everything  else  on  earth  were  charged  with 
aspiration.  They  were  lowly  people  who  came,  but  they  had 
high  visions ;  this  whole  land  is  a  crucible  of  aspirations.  We 
are  the  most  sentimental  people  on  earth.  No  other  land  is 
like  it,  and  some  day — oh,  I  know  God  is  charging  this  bat 
tery  full  of  His  divine  purpose  for  some  great  marvel.  Some 
time  America  will  rise  and  show  her  face  and  the  world  will 
know  us  as  we  are  ! ' ' 

The  girl,  with  eyes  fascinated  by  her  engagement  ring, 
scarcely  understood  what  the  man  was  saying.  She  was  too 
happy  to  consider  problems  of  the  divine  immanence.  There 
was  a  little  mundane  talk  of  Kenyon  and  of  the  Nesbits  and 
then  the  women  went  away. 

An  hour  later  an  old  man  sitting  in  the  dusk  with  a  pencil 
in  his  left  hand,  was  startled  to  see  these  two  women  de 
scending  upon  him,  to  tell  him  the  news.  He  kissed  them 
both  with  his  withered  lips,  and  rubbed  the  soft  cheek  of  the 
maiden  against  his  old  gray  beard. 

And  when  they  were  gone,  he  picked  up  the  pencil  again, 


A  HOUSE  BUILT  UPON  A  ROCK  577 

and  sat  dumbly  waiting,  while  in  his  heart  he  called  eagerly 
across  the  worlds:  "Mary — Mary,  are  you  there?  Do  you 
know  ?  Oh,  Mary,  Mary ! ' ' 

The  funeral  of  the  young  men  killed  in  the  shaft  house 
brought  a  day  of  deepening  emotion  to  Harvey.  Flags  were 
at  half  mast  and  Market  Street  was  draped  in  crape.  The 
stores  closed  at  the  tolling  of  bells  which  announced  the 
hour  of  the  funeral  services.  Two  hundred  automobiles  fol 
lowed  the  soldiers  who  escorted  the  bodies  to  the  cemetery, 
and  when  the  bugle  blew  taps,  tears  stood  in  thousands  of 
eyes. 

The  moaning  of  the  great-throated  regimental  band,  the 
shrilling  of  the  fife  and  the  booming  of  the  drum ;  the  blare 
of  the  bugle  that  sounded  taps  stirred  the  chords  of  hate,  and 
the  town  came  back  from  burying  its  dead  a  vessel  of  wrath. 
In  vain  had  John  Dexter  in  his  sermon  over  Fred  Kollander 
tried  to  turn  the  town  from  its  bitterness  by  preaching  from 
the  text,  "Ye  are  members  one  of  another,"  and  trying 
to  point  the  way  to  charity.  The  town  would  have  no 
charity. 

The  tragedy  of  the  shaft  house  and  the  imprisonment  of 
Grant  Adams  had  staged  for  the  day  all  over  the  nation  in 
the  first  pages  of  the  newspapers  an  interesting  drama. 
Such  a  man  as  Grant  Adams  was  a  figure  whose  jail  sentence 
under  military  law  for  defending  the  rights  of  a  free  press, 
free  speech,  free  assemblage  and  trial  by  jury,  was  good  for  a 
first  page  position  in  every  newspaper  in  the  country — what 
ever  bias  its  editorial  columns  might  take  against  him  and  his 
cause.  Millions  of  eyes  turned  to  look  at  the  drama.  But 
there  were  hundreds  among  the  millions  who  saw  the  drama 
in  the  newspapers  and  who  decided  they  would  like  to  see  it  in 
reality.  Being  foot  loose,  they  came.  So  when  the  funeral 
procession  was  hurrying  back  into  Harvey  and  the  policemen 
and  soldiers  were  dispersing  to  their  posts,  they  fell  upon  half 
a  dozen  travel-stained  strangers  in  the  court  house  yard  ad 
dressing  the  loafers  there.  Promptly  the  strangers  were 
haled  before  the  provost  marshal,  and  promptly  landed  in 
jail.  But  other  strangers  appeared  on  the  streets  from  time 
to  time  as  the  freight  trains  came  clanging  through  town, 
and  by  sundown  a  score  of  young  men  were  in  the  town 


578  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

lockup.  They  were  happy-go-lucky  young  blades ;  rather 
badly  in  need  of  a  bath  and  a  barber,  but  they  sang  lustily 
in.  the  calaboose  and  ate  heartily  and  with  much  experience 
of  prison  fare.  One  read  his  paperbound  Tolstoy;  another 
poured  over  his  leaflet  of  Nietzsche,  a  third  had  a  dog-eared 
, Ibsen  from  the  public  library  of  Omaha,  a  fourth  had  a 
socialist  newspaper,  which  he  derided  noisily,  as  it  was  not 
his  peculiar  cult  of  discontent ;  while  others  played  cards  and 
others  slept,  but  all  were  reasonably  happy.  And  at  the 
strange  spectacle  of  men  jail-bound  enjoying  life,  Harvey 
marveled.  And  still  the  jail  filled  up.  At  midnight  the 
policemen  were  using  a  vacant  storeroom  for  a  jail.  By  day 
break  the  people  of  the  town  knew  that  a  plague  was  upon 
them. 

Every  age  has  its  peculiar  pilgrims,  whose  pilgrimages  are 
reactions  of  life  upon  the  times.  When  the  shrines  called 
men  answered ;  when  the  new  lands  called  men  hastened  to 
them ;  when  wars  called  the  trumpets  woke  the  sound  of  hur 
rying  feet — always  the  feet  of  the  young  men.  For  Youth 
goes  out  to  meet  Danger  in  life  as  his  ancient  and  ever-beloved 
comrade.  So  in  that  distant  epoch  that  closed  half  a  decade 
ago,  in  a  day  when  existence  was  easy ;  when  food  was  always 
to  be  had  for  the  asking,  when  a  bed  was  never  denied  to  the 
weary  who  would  beg  it  the  wide  land  over,  there  arose  a 
band  of  young  men  with  slack  ideas  about  property,  with 
archaic  ideas  of  morality — ideas  perhaps  of  property  and 
morals  that  were  not  unfamiliar  to  their  elder  comrades  of 
the  quest  and  the  joust,  and  the  merry  wars.  These  modern 
lads,  pilgrims  seeking  their  olden,  golden  comrade  Danger, 
sallied  forth  upon  the  highroads  of  our  civilization,  and  as 
the  grail  was  found,  and  the  lands  were  bounded  and  the 
journeys  over  and  the  trumpets  seemed  to  be  forever  muffled, 
these  hereditary  pilgrims  of  the  vast  pretense,  still  looking  for 
Danger,  played  blithely  at  seeking  justice.  It  was  a  fine 
game  and  they  found  their  danger  in  fighting  for  free  speech, 
and  free  assemblage.  They  were  tremendously  in  earnest 
about  it,  even  as  the  good  Don  Quixote  was  with  his  wind 
mills  in  the  earlier,  happier  days.  They  were  of  the  blithe 
cult  which  wooes  Danger  in  Folly  in  times  of  Peace  and  in 
treason  when  war  comes. 


A  HOUSE  BUILT  UPON  A  KOCK  579 

And  so  Harvey  in  its  wrath,  in  its  struggle  for  the  divine 
right  of  Market  Street  to  rule,  Harvey  fell  upon  these  blithe 
pilgrims  with  a  sad  sincerity  that  was  worthy  of  a  better 
cause.  And  the  more  the  young  men  laughed,  the  more  they 
played  tricks  upon  the  police,  reading  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  to  provoke  arrest,  reading  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  to  invite  repression,  even  reading  the  riot  act 
by  way  of  diversion  for  the  police,  the  more  did  the  wooden 
head  of  Market  Street  throb  with  rage  and  the  more  did  the 
people  imagine  a  vain  thing. 

And  when  seventy  of  them  had  crowded  the  jail,  and  their 
leaders  blandly  announced  that  they  would  eat  the  taxes  all 
out  of  the  county  treasury  before  they  stopped  the  fight  for 
free  speech,  Market  Street  awoke.  Eating  taxes  was  some 
thing  that  Market  Street  could  understand.  So  the  police 
began  clubbing  the  strangers.  The  pilgrims  were  meeting 
Danger,  their  lost  comrade,  and  youth's  blood  ran  wild  at 
the  meeting  and  there  were  riots  in  Market  Street.  A  lodg 
ing  house  in  the  railroad  yards  in  South  Harvey  was  raided 
one  night — when  the  strike  was  ten  days  old,  and  as  it  was 
a  railroadmen's  sleeping  place,  and  a  number  of  train 
men  were  staying  there  to  whom  the  doctrines  of  peace 
and  non-resistance  did  not  look  very  attractive  under  a  po 
liceman's  ax-handle — a  policeman  was  killed. 

Then  the  Law  and  Order  League  was  formed.  Storekeep 
ers,  clerks,  real  estate  men,  young  lawyers,  the  heart  of 
that  section  of  the  white-shirted  population  whom  Grant 
Adams  called  the  "poor  plutes,"  joined  this  League.  And 
deaf  John  Hollander  was  its  leader.  Partly  because  of  his 
bereavement  men  let  him  lead,  but  chiefly  because  his  life's 
creed  seemed  to  be  vindicated  by  events,  men  turned  to  him. 
The  bloodshed  on  Market  Street,  the  murder  of  a  policeman 
and  the  dynamiting  of  the  shaft  house  with  their  sons  inside, 
had  aroused  a  degree  of  passion  that  unbalanced  men,  and 
John  Hollander's  wrath  was  public  opinion  dramatized.  The 
police  gave  the  Law  and  Order  League  full  swing,  and 
John  Hollander  was  the  first  chief  in  the  city.  Prisoners 
arrested  for  speaking  without  a  permit  were  turned  over  to 
the  Law  and  Order  League  at  night,  and  taken  in  the  city 
auto-truck  to  the  far  limits  of  the  city,  and  there — a  mile 


580  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

from  the  residential  section,  in  the  high  weeds  that  fringed 
the  town  and  confined  the  country,  the  Law  and  Order 
League  lined  up  under  John  Kollander  and  with  clubs  and 
whips  and  sticks,  compelled  the  prisoners  to  run  a  gauntlet 
to  the  highroad  that  leads  from  Harvey.  Men  were  stripped, 
and  compelled  to  lean  over  and  kiss  an  American  flag — spread 
upon  the  ground,  while  they  were  kicked  and  beaten  before 
they  could  rise.  This  was  to  punish  men  for  carrying  a  red 
flag  of  socialism,  and  John  Kollander  decreed  that  every  loyal 
citizen  of  Harvey  should  wear  a  flag.  To  omit  the  flag'was  to 
arouse  suspicion ;  to  wear  a  red  necktie  was  to  invite  arrest. 
It  was  a  merry  day  for  blithe  devotees  of  Danger ;  and  they 
were  taking  their  full  of  her  in  Harvey. 

The  Law  and  Order  League  was  one  of  those  strange  mad 
nesses  to  which  any  community  may  fall  a  victim.  Kyle 
Perry  and  Ahab  Wright — with  Jasper  Adams  a  nimble  echo, 
church  men,  fathers,  husbands,  solid  business  men,  were  its 
leaders. 

They  endorsed  and  participated  in  brutalities,  cowardly 
cruelties  at  which  in  their  saner  moments  they  could  only 
shudder  in  horror.  But  they  made  Jared  Thurston  chair 
man  of  the  publicity  committee  and  the  Times,  morning  after 
morning,  fanned  the  passions  of  the  people  higher  and  higher. 
"Skin  the  Rats,"  was  the  caption  of  his  editorial  the  morn 
ing  after  a  young  fellow  was  tarred  and  feathered  and  beaten 
until  he  lost  consciousness  and  was  left  in  the  highway.  The 
editorial  under  this  heading  declared  that  anarchy  had  lifted 
its  hydra  head;  that  Grant  Adams  preaching  peace  in  the 
Valley  was  preparing  to  let  in  the  jungle,  and  that  the  bums 
who  were  flooding  the  city  jail  were  Adams's  tools,  who 
soon  would  begin  dynamiting  and  burning  the  town,  when 
it  suited  his  purpose,  while  his  holier-than-thou  dupes  in  the 
Valley  were  conducting  their  goody-goody  strike. 

Plots  of  dynamiting  were  discovered.  Hardly  a  day 
passed  for  nearly  a  week  that  the  big  black  headlines  of  the 
Times  did  not  tell  of  dynamite  found  in  obviously  conspicu 
ous  places — in  the  court  house,  in  the  Sands  opera  house, 
in  the  schoolhouses,  in  the  city  hall.  So  Harvey  grew  class 
conscious,  property  conscious,  and  the  town  went  stark  mad. 


A  HOUSE  BUILT  UPON  A  ROCK  581 

It  was  the  gibbering  fear  of  those  who  make  property  of 
privilege,  and  privilege  of  property,  afraid  of  losing  both. 

But  for  a  week  and  a  day  the  motive  power  of  the  strike 
was  Grant  Adams's  indomitable  will.  Hour  after  hour,  day 
after  day  he  paced  his  iron  floor,  and  dreamed  his  dream  of 
the  conquest  of  the  world  through  fellowship.  And  by  the 
power  of  his  faith  and  by  the  example  of  his  imprisonment 
for  his  faith,  he  held  his  comrades  in  the  gardens,  kept  the 
strikers  on  the  picket  lines  and  sustained  the  courage  of  the 
delegates  in  Belgian  Hall,  who  met  inside  a  wall  of  blue- 
coated  policemen.  The  mind  of  the  Valley  had  reached  a 
place  where  sympathy  for  Grant  Adams  and  devotion  to  him, 
imprisoned  as  their  leader,  was  stronger  than  his  influence 
would  have  been  outside.  So  during  the  week  and  a  day,  the 
waves  of  hate  and  the  winds  of  adverse  circumstance  beat 
upon  the  house  of  faith,  which  he  had  builded  slowly  through 
other  years  in  the  Valley,  and  it  stood  unshaken. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

HOW    MORTY   SANDS    TURNED    AWAY    SADLY    AND    JUDGE   VAN 
DORN   UNCOVERED   A   SECRET 

GRANT  ADAMS  sat  in  his  cell,  with  the  jail  smell  of 
stone  and  iron  and  damp  in  his  nostrils.  As  he 
read  the  copy  of  Tolstoy's  "The  Resurrection/' 
which  his  cell-mate  had  left  in  his  hurried  departure  the  night 
before,  Grant  moved  unconsciously  to  get  into  the  thin  direct 
rays  of  the  only  sunlight — the  early  morning  sunlight,  that 
fell  into  his  cage  during  the  long  summer  day.  The  morn 
ing  Times  lay  on  the  floor  where  Grant  had  dropped  it  after 
reading  the  account  of  what  had  happened  to  his  cell-mate 
when  the  police  had  turned  him  over  to  the  Law  and  Order 
League,  at  midnight.  To  be  sure,  the  account  made  a  great 
hero  of  John  Kollander  and  praised  the  patriotism  of  the 
mob  that  had  tortured  the  poor  fellow.  But  the  fact  of  his 
torture,  the  fact  that  he  had  been  tarred  and  feathered,  and 
turned  out  naked  on  the  golf  links  of  the  country  club,  was 
heralded  by  the  Times  as  a  warning  to  others  who  came  to 
Harvey  to  preach  Socialism,  and  flaunt  the  red  flag.  Grant 
felt  that  the  jailer's  kindness  in  giving  him  the  morning 
paper  so  early  in  the  day,  was  probably  inspired  by  a.  desire 
to  frighten  him  rather  than  to  inform  him  of  the  night's 
events. 

Gradually  he  felt  the  last  warmth  of  the  morning  sun 
creep  away  and  he  heard  a  new  step  beside  the  jailer's  velvet 
footfall  in  the  corridor,  and  heard  the  jailer  fumbling  with 
his  keys  and  heard  him  say:  "That's  the  Adams  cell  there 
in  the  corner,"  and  an  instant  later  Morty  Sands  stood  at 
the  door,  and  the  jailer  let  him  in  as  Grant  said: 

"Well,  Morty — come  right  in  and  make  yourself  at  home." 

He  was  not  the  dashing  young  blade  who  for  thirty  yean 

had  been  the  Beau  Brummel  of  George  Brotherton's  estab- 

582 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  583 

lishment;  but  a  rather  weazened  litle  man  whose  mind  il 
lumined  a  face  that  still  clung-  to  sportive  youth,  while  pre 
mature  age  was  claiming  his  body. 

He  cleared  his  throat  as  he  sat  on  the  bunk,  and  after 
dropping  Grant's  hand  and  glancing  at  the  book  title,  said: 
''Great,  isn't  it?  Where 'd  you  get  it?" 

"The  brother  they  ran  out  last  night.  They  came  after 
him  so  suddenly  that  he  didn't  have  time  to  pack,"  an 
swered  Grant. 

"Well,  he  didn't  need  it,  Grant,"  replied  Morty.  "I  just 
left  him.  I  got  him  last  night  after  the  mob  finished  with 
him,  and  took  him  home  to  our  garage,  and  worked  with 
him  all  night  fixing  him  up.  Grant,  it's  hell.  The  things 
they  did  to  that  fellow — unspeakable,  and  fiendish."  Morty 
cleared  his  throat  again,  paused  to  gather  courage  and  went 
on.  "And  he  heard  something  that  made  him  believe  they 
were  coming1  for  you  to-night." 

The  edge  of  a  smile  touched  the  seamed  face,  and  Grant 
replied:  "Well — maybe  so.  You  never  can  tell.  Besides 
old  John  Kollander,  who  are  the  leaders  of  this  Law  and 
Order  mob,  Morty?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  little  man,  "John  Kollander  is  the  re 
sponsible  head,  but  Kyle  Perry  is  master  of  ceremonies — the 
stuttering-,  old  coot ;  and  Ahab  gives  them  the  use  of  the  po 
lice,  and  Joe  Calvin  backs  up  both  of  them.  However," 
sighed  Morty,  "the  whole  town  is  with  them.  It's  stark  mad, 
Grant — Harvey  has  gone  crazy.  These  tramps  filling  the 
jails  and  eating  up  taxes — and  the  Times  throwing  scares 
into  the  merchants  with  the  report  that  unless  the  strike  is 
broken,  the  smelters  and  glassworks  and  cement  works  will 
move  from  the  district — it's  awful!  My  idea  of  hell,  Grant, 
is  a  place  where  every  man  owns  a  little  property  and  thinks 
he  is  just  about  to  lose  it." 

The  young-old  man  was  excited,  and  his  eyes  glistened, 
but  his  speech  brought  on  a  fit  of  coughing.  He  lifted  his 
face  anxiously  and  began:  "Grant, — I'm  with  you  in  this 
fight."  He  paused  for  breath.  "It's  a  man's  scrap,  Grant 
— a  man's  fight  as  sure  as  you're  born."  Grant  sprang  to 
his  feet  and  threw  back  his  head,  as  he  began  pacing  the 
narrow  cell.  As  he  threw  out  his  arms,  his  claw  clicked 


584  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

on  the  steel  bars  of  the  cell,  and  Morty  Sands  felt  the  sudden 
contracting  of  the  cell  walls  about  the  men  as  Grant  cried 

kt  That's  what  it  is,  Morty — it's  a  man's  fight — a  man's 
fight  for  men.  The  industrial  system  to-day  is  rotting  out 
manhood — and  womanhood  too — rotting  out  humanity  be 
cause  capitalism  makes  unfair  divisions  of  the  profits  of  in 
dustry,  giving  the  workers  a  share  that  keeps  them  in  a 
man-rotting  environment,  and  we're  going  to  break  up  the 
system — the  whole  infernal  profit  system — the  blight  of  cap 
italism  upon  the  world."  Grant  brought  down  his  hand  on 
Morty 's  frail  shoulder  in  a  kind  of  frenzy.  "Oh,  it's  com 
ing — the  Democracy  of  Labor  is  coming  in  the  earth,  bring 
ing  peace  and  hope — hope  that  is  the  'last  gift  of  the  gods 
to  men' — Oh,  it's  coming!  it's  coming."  His  eyes  were  blaz 
ing  and  his  voice  high  pitched.  He  caught  Morty 's  eyes 
and  seemed  to  shut  off  all  other  consciousness  from  him  but 
that  of  the  idea  which  obsessed  him. 

Morty  Sands  felt  gratefully  the  spell  of  the  strong  mind 
upon  him.  Twice  he  started  to  speak,  and  twice  stopped. 
Then  Grant  said:  "Out  with  it,  Morty — what's  on  your 
chest?" 

"Well, — this  thing,"  he  tapped  his  throat,  "is  going  to  get 
me,  Grant,  unless — well,  it's  a  last  hope;  but  I  thought,"  he 
spoke  in  short,  hesitating  phrases,  then  he  started  again. 
"Grant,  Grant,"  he  cried,  "you  have  it,  this  thing  they  call 
vitality.  You  are  all  vitality,  bodily,  mentally,  spiritually. 
Why  have  I  been  denied  always,  everything  that  you  have! 
Millions  of  good  men  and  bad  men  and  indifferent  men  are 
overflowing  with  power,  and  I — I — why,  why  can't  I — what 
shall  I  do  to  get  it?  How  can  I  feel  and  speak  and  live  as 
you ?  Tell  me."  He  gazed  into  the  strong,  hard  visage  look 
ing  down  upon  him,  and  cried  weakly:  "Grant — for  God's 
sake,  help  me.  Tell  me — what  shall  I  do  to — Oh,  I  want  to 
live — I  want  to  live,  Grant,  can't  you  help  me!" 

He  stopped,  exhausted.  Grant  looked  at  him  keenly,  and 
asked  gently, 

"Had  another  hemorrhage  this  morning — didn't  you?" 

Morty  looked  over  his  clothes  to  detect  the  stain  of  blood, 
and  nodded.  "Oh,  just  a  little  one.  Up  all  night  working 
with  Folsom,  but  it  didn't  amount  to  anything." 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  585 

Grant  sat  beside  the  broken  man,  and  taking  his  white 
hand  in  his  big,  paw-like  hand : 

"Morty — Morty — my  dear,  gentle  friend;  your  trouble  is 
not  your  body,  but  your  soul.  You  read  these  great  books, 
and  they  fascinate  your  mind.  But  they  don't  grip  your 
soul ;  you  see  these  brutal  injustices,  and  they  cut  your  heart ; 
but  they  don't  reach  your  will."  The  strong  hand  felt  the 
fluttering  pressure  of  the  pale  hand  in  its  grasp.  Morty 
looked  down,  and  seemed  about  to  speak. 

" Morty,"  Grant  resumed,  "it's  your  money — your  soul- 
choking  money.  You've  never  had  a  deep,  vital,  will-moving 
conviction  in  your  life.  You  haven't  needed  this  money. 
Morty,  Morty,"  he  cried,  "what  you  need  is  to  get  out  of 
your  dry-rot  of  a  life ;  let  the  Holy  Ghost  in  your  soul  wake 
up  to  the  glory  of  serving.  Face  life  barehanded,  conse 
crate  your  talents — you  have  enough — to  this  man's  fight  for 
men.  Throw  away  your  miserable  back-breaking  money. 
Give  it  to  the  poor  if  you  feel  like  it ;  it  won't  help  them  par 
ticularly."  He  shook  his  head  so  vigorously  that  his  vigor 
seemed  like  anger,  arid  hammered  with  his  claw  on  the  iron 
bunk.  "Money,"  he  cried  and  repeated  the  word,  "money 
not  earned  in  self-respect  never  helps  any  one.  But  to  get 
rid  of  the  damned  stuff  will  revive  you ;  will  give  you  a  new 
interest  in  life — will  change  your  whole  physical  body,  and 
then — if  you  live  one  hour  in  the  big  soul-bursting  joy  of 
service  you  will  live  forever.  But  if  you  die — die  as  you  are, 
Morty — you'll  die  forever.  Come."  Grant  reached  out  his 
arms  to  Morty  and  fixed  his  luminous  eyes  upon  his  friend, 
"Come,  come  with  me,"  he  pleaded.  "That  will  cure  your 
soul — and  it  doesn't  matter  about  your  body." 

Morty 's  face  lighted,  and  he  smiled  sympathetically;  but 
the  light  faded.  He  dropped  his  gaze  to  the  floor  and  sighed. 
Then  he  shook  his  head  sadly.  "It  won't  work,  Grant — it 
won't  work.  I'm  not  built  that  way.  It  won't  work." 

His  fine  sensitive  mouth  trembled,  and  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  that  ended  in  a  hard  dry  cough.  Then  he  rose,  held 
out  his  hand  and  said: 

"Now  you  watch  out,  Grant — they'll  get  you  yet.  I  tell 
you  it's  awful — that's  the  exact  word — the  way  hate  has 
driven  this  town  mad."  He  shook  the  cage  door,  and  the 


586  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

jailer  came  from  around  a  corner,  and  unlocked  the  door, 
and  in  a  moment  Morty  was  walking  slowly  away  with  his 
eyes  on  the  cold  steel  of  the  cell-room  floor. 

When  his  visitor  was  gone,  Grant  Adams  went  back  to 
his  book.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  went  to  the  slit  in  his 
cell,  which  served  as  window,  and  looked  on  a  damp  court 
yard  that  gave  him  a  narrow  slice  of  Market  Street  and  the 
Federal  court  house  in  the  distance.  Men  and  women  walk 
ing  in  and  out  of  the  little  stereoscopic  view  he  had  of  the 
street,  seemed  to  the  prisoner  people  in  a  play,  or  in  another 
world.  They  were  remote  from  him.  At  the  gestures  they 
made,  the  gaits  they  fell  into,  the  errands  they  were  going 
upon,  the  spring  that  obviously  moved  them,  he  gazed  as 
one  who  sees  a  dull  pantomime.  During  the  middle  of  the 
morning,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  Judge  Van  Dorn's  big,  black 
motor  car  roll  up  to  the  curb  before  the  Federal  court  house 
and  unload  the  spare,  dried-up,  clothes-padded  figure  of  the 
Judge,  who  flicked  out  of  Grant's  eyeshot.  A  hundred 
other  figures  passed,  and  Ahab  Wright,  with  his  white  side- 
whiskers  bristling  testily,  came  bustling  across  the  stereop- 
ticon  screen  and  turned  to  the  court  house  and  was  gone. 
Young  Joe  Calvin,  dismounting  from  his  white  horse,  came 
for  a  second  into  the  picture,  and  soon  after  the  elder  Cal 
vin  came  trotting  along  beside  Kyle  Perry  with  his  heavy- 
footed  gait,  and  the  two  turned  as  the  Judge  had  turned — 
evidently  into  the  court  house,  where  the  Judge  had  his  office. 

Grant  took  up  his  book.  After  noon  the  jailer  came  with 
Henry  Fenn,  who,  as  Adams'  attorney,  visited  him  daily. 
But  the  jailer  stood  by  while  the  lawyer  talked  to  the  pris 
oner  through  the  bars.  Henry  Fenn  wore  a  troubled  face 
and  Grant  saw  at  once  that  his  friend  was  worried.  So 
Grant  began : 

"So  you've  heard  my  cell-mate's  message — eh,  Henry? 
Well,  don't  worry.  Tell  the  boys  down  in  the  Valley,  what 
ever  they  do — to  keep  off  Market  Street  and  out  of  Harvey 
to-night." 

The  listening  jailer  looked  sharply  at  Fenn.  It  was  ap 
parent  the  jailer  expected  Fenn  to  protest.  But  Fenn  turned 
his  radiant  smile  on  the  jailer  and  said:  "The  smelter  men 
say  they  could  go  through  this  steel  as  if  it  was  pasteboard 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  587 

in  ten  minutes— if  you'd  say  the  word."  Fenn  grinned  at 
the  prisoner  as  he  added:  "If  you  want  the  boys,  all  the 
tin  soldiers  and  fake  cops  in  the  State  can't  stop  them.  But 
I've  told  them  to  stay  away — to  stay  in  their  fields,  to  keep 
the  peace;  that  it  is  your  wish." 

"Henry,"  replied  Grant,  "tell  the  boys  this  for  me. 
We've  won  this  fight  now.  They  can't  build  a  fire,  strike  a 
pick,  or  turn  a  wheel  if  the  boys  stick — and  stick  in  peace. 
I'm  satisfied  that  this  story  of  what  they  will  do  to  me  to 
night,  while  I  don't  question  the  poor  chap  who  sent  the 
word — is  a  plan  to  scare  the  boys  into  a  riot  to  save  me  and 
thus  to  break  our  peace  strike." 

He  walked  nervously  up  and  down  his  cell,  clicking  the 
bars  with  his  claw  as  he  passed  the  door.  "Tell  the  boys 
this.  Tell  them  to  go  to  bed  to-night  early;  beware  of 
false  rumors,  and  at  all  hazards  keep  out  of  Harvey.  I'm 
absolutely  safe.  I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid — and,  Henry, 
Henry,"  cried  Grant,  as  he  saw  doubt  and  anxiety  in  his 
friend's  face,  "what  if  it's  true;  what  if  they  do  come 
and  get  me?  They  can't  hurt  me.  They  can  only  hurt 
themselves.  Violence  always  reacts.  Every  blow  I  get  will 
help  the  boys — I  know  this — I  tell  you — " 

"And  I  tell  you,  young  man,"  interrupted  Fenn,  "that 
right  now  one  dead  leader  with  a  short  arm  is  worth  more 
to  the  employers  than  a  ton  of  moral  force !  And  Laura  and 
George  and  Nate  and  the  Doctor  and  I  have  been  skirmish 
ing  around  all  day,  and  we  have  filed  a  petition  for  your 
release  on  a  habeas  corpus  in  the  Federal  court — on  the 
ground  that  your  imprisonment  under  martial  law  without 
a  jury  trial  is  unconstitutional." 

"In  the  Federal  court  before  Van  Dorn?"  asked  Grant, 
incredulously. 

"Before  Van  Dorn.  The  State  courts  are  paralyzed  by 
young  Joe  Calvin's  militia!"  returned  Fenn,  adding:  "We 
filed  our  petition  this  morning.  So,  whether  you  like  it  or 
not,  you  appear  at  three-thirty  o'clock  this  afternoon  before 
Van  Dorn." 

Grant  smiled  and  after  a  moment  spoke:  "Well,  if  I 
was  as  scared  as  you  people,  I'd — look  here,  Henry,  don't 
lose  your  nerve,  man — they  can't  hurt  me.  Nothing  on  this 


588  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

earth  can  hurt  me,  don't  you  see,  man — why  go  to  Van 
Dora?" 

Fenn  answered:  " After  all,  Tom's  a  good  lawyer  in  a 
life  job  and  he  doesn't  want  to  be  responsible  for  a  decision 
against  you  that  will  make  him  a  joke  among  lawyers  all 
over  the  country  when  he  is  reversed  by  appeal."  Grant 
shook  his  dubious  head. 

"Well,  it's  worth  trying,"  returned  Fenn. 

At  three  o'clock  Joseph  Calvin,  representing  the  employ 
ers,  notified  Henry  Fenn  that  Judge  Van  Dorn  had  been 
called  out  of  town  unexpectedly  and  would  not  be  able  to  hear 
the  Adams'  petition  at  the  appointed  time.  That  was  all. 
No  other  time  was  set.  But  at  half-past  five  George  Broth- 
erton  saw  a  messenger  boy  going  about,  summoning  men  to 
a  meeting.  Then  Brotherton  found  that  the  Law  and  Or 
der  League  was  sending  for  its  members  to  meet  in  the  Fed 
eral  courtroom  at  half-past  eight.  He  learned  also  that 
Judge  Van  Dorn  would  return  on  the  eight  o'clock  train 
and  expected  to  hear  the  Adams'  petition  that  night.  So 
Brotherton  knew  the  object  of  the  meeting.  In  ten  minutes 
Doctor  Nesbit,  Henry  Fenn  and  Nathan  Perry  were  in  the 
Brotherton  store. 

"It  means,"  said  Fenn,  "that  the  mob  is  going  after 
Grant  to-night  and  that  Tom  knows  it." 

"Why?"  asked  the  thin,  sharp  voice  of  Nathan  Perry. 

"Otherwise  he  would  have  let  the  case  go  over  until 
morning." 

"Why?"  again  cut  in  Perry. 

Because  for  the  mob  to  attack  a  man  praying  for  re 
lease  under  habeas  corpus  in  a  federal  court  might  mean 
contempt  of  court  that  the  federal  government  might  in 
vestigate.  So  Tom's  going  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  matter 
before  the  mob  acts  to-night." 

"Why?"  again  Perry  demanded: 

"Well,"  continued  Fenn,  "every  day  they  wait  means  ac 
cumulated  victory  for  the  strikers.  So  after  Tom  refuses  to 
release  Grant,  the  mob  will  take  him. ' ' 

"Well,  say— let's  go  to  the  Valley  with  this  story.  We 
can  get  five  thousand  men  here  by  eight  o'clock,"  cried 
Brotherton. 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  589 

"And  precipitate  a  riot,  George/'  put  in  the  Doctor  softly, 
"  which  is  one  of  the  things  they  desire.  In  the  riot  the 
murder  of  Grant  could  be  easily  handled  and  I  don't  believe 
they  will  do  more  than  try  to  scare  him  otherwise." 

"Why?"  again  queried  Nathan  Perry,  towering  thin  and 
nervous  above  the  seated  council. 

"Well,"  piped  the  Doctor,  with  his  chin  on  his  cane,  "he's 
too  big  a  figure  nationally  for  murder — " 

"Well,  then — what  do  you  propose,  gentlemen?"  asked 
Perry  who,  being  the  youngest  man  in  the  council,  was  im 
patient. 

Fenn  rose,  his  back  to  the  ornamental  logs  piled  decora- 
lively  in  the  fireplace,  and  answered : 

"To  sound  the  clarion  means  riot  and  bloodshed — and 
failure  for  the  cause. ' ' 

"To  let  things  drift,"  put  in  Brotherton,  "puts  Grant  in 
danger." 

"Of  what?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Well,  of  indignities  unspeakable  and  cruel  torture,"  re 
turned  Brotherton. 

"I'm  sure  that's  all,  George.  But  can't  we — we  four 
stop  that?"  said  Fenn.  "Can't  we  stand  off  the  mob?  A 
mob's  a  coward." 

"It's  the  least  we  can  do,"  said  Perry. 

"And  all  you  can  do,  Nate,"  added  the  Doctor,  with  the 
weariness  of  age  in  his  voice  and  in  his  counsel. 

But  when  the  group  separated  and  the  Doctor  purred  up 
the  hill  in  his  electric,  his  heart  was  sore  within  him  and  he 
spoke  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom  of  the  burden  that  was  on 
his  heart.  Then,  after  a  dinner  scarcely  tasted,  the  Doc 
tor  hurried  down  town  to  meet  with  the  men  at  Brotherton 's. 

As  Mrs.  Nesbit  saw  the  electric  dip  under  the  hill,  her  first 
impulse  was  to  call  up  her  daughter  on  the  telephone,  who 
was  at  Foley  that  evening.  For  be  it  remembered  Mrs.  Nes 
bit  in  the  days  of  her  prime  was  dubbed  "the  General"  by 
George  Brotherton,  and  when  she  saw  the  care  and  hover 
ing  fear  in  the  pink,  old  face  of  the  man  she  loved,  she  was 
not  the  woman  to  sit  and  rock.  She  had  to  act  and,  because 
she  feared  she  would  be  stopped,  she  did  not  pick  up  the 
telephone  receiver.  She  went  to  the  library,  where  Kenyon 


590  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

Adams  with  his  broken  leg  in  splints  was  sitting  while  Lila 
read  to  him.  She  stood  looking  at  the  lovers  for  a  moment. 

"Children,"  she  said,  "Grant  Adams  is  in  great  danger. 
We  must  help  him." 

To  their  startled  questions,  she  answered:  "He  is  asking 
your  father,  Lila,  to  release  him  from  the  prison  to-night. 
If  he  is  not  released,  a  mob  will  take  Grant  as  they  took 
that  poor  fool  last  night  and — "  She  stopped,  turned  toward 
them  a  perturbed  and  fear-wrinkled  face.  Then  she  said 
quickly:  "I  don't  know  that  I  owe  Grant  Adams  anything 
but — you  children  do — "  She  did  not  complete  her  sen 
tence,  but  burst  out:  "I  don't  care  for  Tom  Van  Dorn's 
court,  his  grand  folderol  and  mummery  of  the  law.  He's 
going  to  send  a  man  to  death  to-night  because  his  masters 
demand  it.  And  we  must  stop  it — you  and  Lila  and  I, 
Kenyon." 

Kenyori  reached  out,  tried  to  rise  and  failed,  but  grasped 
her  strong,  effective  hand,  as  he  cried:  "What  can  we  do — 
what  can  I  do?" 

She  went  into  the  Doctor's  office  and  brought  out  two  old 
crutches. 

"Take  these,"  she  said,  "then  I'll  help  you  down  the 
porch  steps — and  you  go  to  your  mother!  That's  what  you 
can  do.  Maybe  she  can  stop  him — she  has  done  a  number  of 
other  worse  things  with  him." 

She  literally  lifted  the  tottering  youth  down  the  veranda 
steps  and  a  few  moments  later  his  crutches  were  rattling 
upon  the  stone  steps  that  rose  in  front  of  the  proud  house 
of  Van  Dorn.  Margaret  had  seen  him  coming  and  met  him 
before  he  rang  the  bell. 

She  looked  the  dreadful  wonder  in  her  mind  and  as  he  took 
her  hand  to  steady  himself,  he  spoke  while  she  was  helping 
him  to  sit. 

"You  are  my  mother,"  he  said  simply.  "I  know  it  now." 
He  felt  her  hand  tighten  on  his  arm.  She  bent  over  him  and 
with  finger  on  lips,  whispered:  "Hush,  hush,  the  maid  is 
in  there — what  is  it,  Kenyon?" 

"I  want  you  to  save  Grant." 

She  still  stood  over  him,  looking  at  him  with  her  glazed 
eyes  shot  with  the  evidence  of  a  strong  emotion. 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  591 

"Kenyon,  Kenyon — my  boy — my  son!"  she  whispered, 
then  said  greedily:  "Let  me  say  it  again — my  son!"  She 
whispered  the  word  "son"  for  a  moment,  stooping  over  him, 
touching  his  forehead  gently  with  her  fingers.  Then  she 
cried  under  her  breath:  "What  about  that  man — your — 
Grant  ?  What  have  I  to  do  with  him  ? ' ' 

He  reached  for  her  hands  beseechingly  and  said:  "We 
are  asking  your  husband,  the  Judge,  to  let  him  out  of  jail 
to-night,  for  if  the  Judge  doesn't  release  Grant — they  are 
going  to  mob  him  and  maybe  kill  him!  Oh,  won't  you  save 
him?  You  can.  I  know  you  can.  The  Judge  will  let  him 
out  if  you  demand  it. ' ' 

'  *  My  son,  my  son ! ' '  the  woman  answered  as  she  looked 
vacantly  at  him.  "You  are  my  son,  my  very  own,  aren't 
you?" 

She  stooped  to  look  into  his  eyes  and  cried :  * '  Oh,  you  're 
mine" — her  trembling  fingers  ran  over  his  face.  "My  eyes, 
my  hair.  You  have  my  voice — 0  God — why  haven't  they 
found  it  out?"  Then  she  began  whispering  over  again  the 
words,  "My  son." 

A  clock  chimed  the  half-hour.  It  checked  her.  "He'll 
be  back  in  half  an  hour,"  she  said,  rising;  then —  "So 
they're  going  to  mob  Grant,  are  they?  And  he  sent  you 
here  asking  me  for  mercy ! ' ' 

Kenyon  shook  his  head  in  protest  and  cried:  "No,  no,  no. 
He  doesn't  even  know — " 

She  looked  at  the  young  man  and  became  convinced  that 
he  was  telling  the  truth;  but  she  was  sure  that  Laura  Van 
Dorn  had  sent  him.  It  was  her  habit  of  mind  to  see  the 
ulterior  motive.  So  the  passion  of  motherhood  flaring  up 
after  years  of  suppression  quickly  died  down.  It  could  not 
dominate  her  in  her  late  forties,  even  for  the  time,  nor  even 
with  the  power  which  held  her  during  the  night  of  the  riot  in 
South  Harvey,  when  she  was  in  her  thirties.  The  passion 
of  motherhood  with  Margaret  Van  Dorn  was  largely  a  mem 
ory,  but  hate  was  a  lively  and  material  emotion. 

She  fondled  her  son  in  the  simulation  of  a  passion  that 
she  did  not  feel — and  when  in  his  eagerness  he  tried  vainly 
to  tie  her  to  a  promise  to  help  his  father,  she  would  only 
reply : 


592  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

"Kenyon,  oh,  my  son,  my  beautiful  son — you  know  I'd 
give  my  life  for  you — " 

The  son  looked  into  the  dead,  brassy  eyes  of  his  mother, 
saw  her  drooping  mouth,  with  the  brown  lips  that  had  not 
been  stained  that  day;  observed  the  slumping  muscles  of 
her  over-massaged  face,  and  felt  with  a  shudder  the  caress 
of  her  fingers — and  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  she  was  deceiv 
ing  him.  A  moment  after  she  had  spoken  the  automobile 
going  to  the  station  for  the  Judge  backed  out  of  the  garage 
and  turned  into  the  street. 

"You  must  go  now,"  she  cried,  clinging  to  him.  "Oh, 
son — son — my  only  son — come  to  me,  come  to  your  mother 
sometimes  for  her  love.  He  is  coming  now  in  a  few  minutes 
on  the  eight  o'clock  train.  You  must  not  let  him  see  you 
here." 

She  helped  Kenyon  to  rise.  He  stumbled  across  the  floor 
to  the  steps  and  she  helped  him  gently  down  to  the  lawn. 
She  stood  play-acting  for  him  a  moment  in  whisper  and 
pantomime,  then  she  turned  and  hurried  indoors  and  met 
the  inquisitive  maid  servant  with : 

"Just  that  Kenyon  Adams — the  musician — awfully  dear 
boy,  but  he  wanted  me  to  interfere  with  the  Judge  for  that 
worthless  brother,  Grant.  The  Nesbits  sent  him.  You 
know  the  Nesbit  woman  is  crazy  about  that  anarchist.  Oh, 
Nadine,  did  Chalmers  see  Kenyon?  You  know  Chalmers 
just  blabs  everything  to  the  Judge." 

Nadine  indicated  that  Chalmers  had  recognized  Kenyon 
as  he  crawled  up  the  veranda  steps  and  Mrs.  Van  Dorn 
replied:  "Very  well,  I'll  be  ready  for  him."  And  half  an 
hour  later,  when  the  Jud<?e  drove  up,  his  wife  met  him  as 
he  was  putting  his  valise  in  his  room : 

"Dahling,"  she  said  as  she  closed  the  door,  "that  Kenyon 
Adams  was  over  here,  appealing  to  me  for  his  brother, 
Grant." 

"Well?"  asked  the  Judge  contemptuously. 

"You  have  him  where  we  want  him  now,  dahling,"  she 
answered.  "If  you  refuse  him  his  freedom,  the  mob  will 
get  him.  And  oh,  oh,  oh,"  she  cried  passionately,  "I  hope 
they'll  hang  him,  hang  him,  higher 'n  Haman.  That  will 
take  the  tuck  out  of  the  old  Nesbit  cat  and  that  other,  his — 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET   593 

his  sweetheart,  to  have  her  daughter  marrying  the  brother 
of  a  man  who  was  hanged !  That'll  bring  them  down." 

A  flash  across  the  Judge's  face  told  the  woman  where  her 
emotion  was  leading  her.  It  angered  her. 

"So  that  holds  you,  does  it?  That  binds  the  hands  of 
the  Judge,  does  it?  This  wonderful  daughter,  who  snubs 
him  on  the  street — she  mustn't  marry  the  brother  of  a  man 
who  was  hanged  ! ' '  Margaret  laughed,  and  the  Judged  glow 
ered  in  rage  until  the  scar  stood  white  upon  his  purple  brow. 

"Dahling,"  she  leered,  "remember  our  little  discussion 
of  Kenyon  Adams's  parentage  that  night!  Maybe  our  dear 
little  girl  is  going  to  marry  the  son,  the  son,"  she  repeated 
wickedly,  "of  a  man  who  was  hanged!" 

He  stepped  toward  her  crying:  "For  God's  sake,  quit! 
Quit!" 

"Oh,  I  hope  he'll  hang.  I  hope  he'll  hang  and  you've  got 
to  hang  him!  You've  got  to  hang  him!"  she  mocked  ex 
ult  in  »ly. 

The  man  turned  in  rage.  He  feared  the  powerful,  physi 
cal  creature  before  him.  He  had  never  dared  to  strike  her. 
He  wormed  past  her  and  ran  slinking  down  the  hall  and  out 
of  the  door — out  from  the  temple  of  love,  which  he  had 
builded — somewhat  upon  sand  perhaps,  but  still  the  temple 
of  love.  A  rather  sad  place  it  was,  withal,  in  which  to  rest 
the  weary  bones  of  the  hunter  home  from  the  hills,  after  a 
life-long  ride  to  hounds  in  the  primrose  hunt. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  upon  the  steps  of  the  veranda, 
while  his  heart  pumped  the  bile  of  hate  through  him;  and 
suddenly  hearing  a  soft  footfall,  he  turned  his  head  quickly, 
and  saw  Lila — his  daughter.  As  he  turned  toward  her  in 
the  twilight  it  struck  him  like  a  blow  in  the  face  that  she  in 
some  way  symbolized  all  that  he  had  always  longed  for — his 
unattainable  ideal;  for  she  seemed  young — immortally 
young,  and  sweet.  The  grace  of  maidenhood  shone  from  her 
and  she  turned  an  eager  but  infinitely  wistful  face  up  to 
his,  and  for  a  second  the  picture  of  the  slim,  white-clad 
figure,  enveloping  and  radiating  the  gentle  eagerness  of  a 
beautiful  soul,  came  to  him  like  the  disturbing  memory  of 
some  vague,  lost  dream  and  confused  him.  While  she  spoke 
he  groped  back  to  the  moment  blindly  and  heard  her  say : 


594  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

' '  Oh,  you  will  help  me  now,  this  once,  this  once  when  I  beg 
it;  you  will  help  me?"  As  she  spoke  she  clutched  his  arm. 
Her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  ''Father,  don't  let  them 
murder  him — don't,  oh,  please,  father — for  me,  won't  you 
save  him  for  me — won't  you  let  him  out  of  jail  now?" 

"Lila,  child,"  the  Judge  held  out  his  hand  unsteadily, 
"it's  not  what  I  want  to  do;  it's  the  law  that  I  must  follow. 
"Why,  I  can't  do—" 

"If  Mr.  Ahab  Wright  was  in  jail  as  Grant  is  and  the 
workmen  had  the  State  government,  what  would  the  law 
say?"  she  answered.  Then  she  gripped  his  hands  and  cried: 
' '  Oh,  father,  father,  have  mercy,  have  mercy !  We  love  him 
so  and  it  will  kill  Kenyon.  Grant  has  been  like  a  father  to 
Kenyon;  he  has  been — " 

"Tell  me  this,  Lila,"  the  Judge  stopped  her;  he  held  her 
hands  in  his  cold,  hard  palms.  "Who  is  Kenyon — who  is  his 
father — do  you  know  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know,"  the  daughter  replied  quietly. 

"Tell  me,  then.     I  ought  to  know,"  he  demanded. 

"There  is  just  one  right  by  which  you  can  ask,"  she  be 
gan.  "But  if  you  refuse  me  this — by  what  other  right  can 
you  ask?  Oh,  daddy,  daddy,"  she  sobbed.  "Tn  my  dreams 
I  call  you  that.  Did  you  ever  hear  that  name,  daddy, 
daddy — I  want  you — for  my  sake,  to  save  this  man,  daddy. 

The  Judge  heard  the  words  that  for  years  had  sounded  in 
his  heart.  They  cut  deep  into  his  being.  But  they  found 
no  quick. 

"Well,  daughter,"  he  answered,  "as  a  father — as  a  father 
who  will  help  you  all  he  can — I  ask,  then,  who  is  Kenyon 
Adams's  father?" 

"Grant,"  answered  the  girl  simply. 

"Then  you  are  going  to  marry  an  illegitimate — " 

"I  shall  marry  a  noble,  pure-souled  man,  father." 

"But,  Lila— Lila,"  he  rasped,  "who  is  his  mother?" 

Then  she  shrank  away  from  him.  She  shook  her  head 
sadly,  and  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  forcibly  as  she 
cried : 

"O  father — father — daddy,  have  you  no  heart — no  heart 
at  all?"  She  looked  beseechingly  up  into  his  face  and  be 
fore  he  could  reply,  she  seemed  to  decide  upon  some  further 


JUDGE  VAN  DORN  UNCOVERED  A  SECRET  595 

plea.  "  Father,  it  is  sacred — very  sacred  to  me,  a  beautiful 
memory  that  I  carry  of  you,  when  I  think  of  the  word 
'Daddy/  I  have  never,  never,  not  even  to  mother,  nor  to 
Kenyon  spoken  of  it.  But  I  see  you  young,  and  straight 
and  tall  and  very  handsome.  You  have  on  light  gray  clothes 
and  a  red  flower  on  your  coat,  and  I  am  in  your  arms  hug 
ging  you,  and  then  you  put  me  down,  and  I  stand  crying 
'Daddy,  daddy,'  after  you,  when  you  are  called  away  some 
where.  Oh,  then— then,  oh,  I  know  that  then— I  don't  know 
where  you  went  nor  anything,  but  then,  then  when  I  snuggled 
up  to  you,  surely  you  would  have  heard  me  if  I  had  asked  you 
what  I  am  asking  now. ' ' 

The  daughter  paused,  but  the  father  did  not  answer  at 
once.  He  looked  away  from  her  across  the  years.  In  the 
silence  Lila  was  aware  that  in  the  doorway  back  of  her 
father,  Margaret  Van  Dorn  stood  listening.  Her  husband 
did  not  know  that  she  was  there. 

"Lila,"  he  began,  "you  have  told  me  that  Kenyon 's  father 
is  Grant  Adams,  why  do  you  shield  his  mother?" 

The  daughter  stood  looking  intently  into  the  brazen  eyes 
of  her  father,  trying  to  find  some  way  into  his  heart. 
"Father,  Grant  Adams  is  before  your  court.  He  is  the 
father  of  the  man  whom  I  shall  marry.  You  have  a  right 
to  know  all  there  is  to  know  about  Grant  Adams."  She 
shook  her  head  decisively.  "But  Kenyon 's  mother,  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  what  I  am  asking  you!'  She  paused, 
then  cried  passionately:  "  Kenyon 's  mother — oh,  father, 
that's  some  poor  woman's  secret,  which  has  no  bearing  on 
this  case.  If  you  had  any  right  on  earth  to  know,  I  should 
tell  you ;  but  you  have  no  right. ' ' 

"Now,  Lila,"  answered  her  father  petulantly — "look  here 
— why  do  you  get  entangled  with  those  Adamses  ?  They  are 
a  low  lot.  Girl,  a  Van  Dorn  has  no  business  stooping  to 
marry  an  Adams.  Miserable  mongrel  blood  is  that  Adams 
blood  child.  Why  the  Van  Dorns — "  but  Lila's  pleading, 
wistful  voice  went  on : 

"In  all  my  life,  father,  I  have  asked  you  only  this  one 
thing,  and  this  is  just,  you  know  how  just  it  is — that  you 
keep  my  future  husband's  father  from  a  cruel,  shameful 
death.  And — now — "  her  voice  was  quivering,  near  the 


596  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

breaking  point,  and  she  cried :  "  And  now,  now  you  bring  in 
blood  and  family.  What  are  they  in  an  hour  like  this !  Oh, 
father — father,  would  my  daddy — the  fine,  strong,  loving 
daddy  of  my  dreams  do  this?  Would  he — would  he — oh, 
daddy — daddy — daddy ! "  she  cried,  beseechingly. 

Perhaps  he  could  see  in  her  face  the  consciousness  that 
some  one  was  behind  him,  for  he  turned  and  saw  his  wife 
standing  in  the  doorway.  As  he  saw  her,  there  rose  in  him 
the  familiar  devil  she  always  aroused,  which  in  the  first 
years  wore  the  mask  of  love,  but  dropped  that  mask  for  the 
sneer  of  hate.  It  was  the  devil's  own  voice  that  spoke, 
quietly,  suavely,  and  with  a  hardness  that  chilled  his  daugh 
ter 's  heart.  "Lila,  perhaps  the  secret  of  Kenyon's  mother 
is  no  affair  of  mine,  but  neither  is  Grant  Adams's  fate  after  I 
turn  him  back  to  the  jailer,  an  affair  of  mine.  But  you  make 
Grant's  affair  mine;  well,  then — I  make  this  secret  an  af 
fair  of  mine.  If  you  want  me  to  release  Grant  Adams — 
well,  then,  I  insist. ' '  The  gray  features  of  his  wife  stopped 
him;  but  he  smiled  and  waved  his  hand  grandly  at  the 
miserable  woman,  as  he  went  on:  "You  see  my  wife  has 
bragged  to  me  once  or  twice  that  she  knows  who  Kenyon's 
mother  is,  Lila,  and  now — " 

The  daughter  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and  turned  away, 
sick  with  the  horror  of  the  scene.  Her  heart  revolted  against 
the  vile  intrigue  her  father  was  proposing.  She  turned 
and  faced  him,  clasping  her  hands  in  her  anguish,  lifted  her 
burning  face  for  a  moment  and  stared  piteously  at  him,  as 
she  sobbed:  "O  dear,  dear  God— is  this  my  father?"  and 
shaking  with  shame  and  horror  she  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  L 

JUDGE   TAN   DORN   SINGS   SOME   MERRY    SONGS   AND   THEY   TAKB 
GRANT  ADAMS  BEHIND  A  WHITE  DOOR 

AFTER  arguments  of  counsel,  after  citation  of  cases, 
after  the  applause  of  Market  Street  at  some  inci 
dental  obiter  dicta  of  Judge  Van  Dorn's  about  the 
rights  of  property,  after  the  court  had  put  on  its  tortoise- 
shell  rimmed  glasses,  which  the  court  had  brought  home 
from  its  recent  trip  to  Chicago  to  witness  the  renomination 
of  President  Taft,  after  the  court,  peering  through  its  brown- 
framed  spectacles,  was  fumbling  over  its  typewritten  opin 
ion  from  the  typewriter  of  the  offices  of  Calvin  &  Calvin, 
written  during  the  afternoon  by  the  court's  legal  alter  ego, 
after  the  court  had  cleared  its  throat  to  proceed  with  the 
reading  of  the  answer  to  the  petition  in  habeas  corpus  of 
Grant  Adams,  the  court,  through  its  owlish  glasses,  saw  the 
eyes  of  the  petitioner  Adams  fixed,  as  the  court  believed, 
malignantly  on  the  court. 

' '  Adams, ' '  barked  the  court,  ' '  stand  up ! "  With  his  black 
slouch  hat  in  his  hand,  the  petitioner  Adams  rose.  It  was  a 
hot  night  and  he  wiped  his  brow  with  a  red  handkerchief 
twisted  about  his  steel  claw. 

"Adams,"  began  the  court,  laying  down  the  typewritten 
manuscript,  ' '  I  suppose  you  think  you  are  a  martyr. ' J 

The  court  paused.  Grant  Adams  made  no  reply.  The 
court  insisted: 

"Well,  speak  up.     Aren't  you  a  martyr?" 

"No,"  meeting  the  eye  of  the  court,  "I  want  to  get  out 
and  get  to  work  too  keenly  to  be  a  martyr. ' ' 

"To  get  to  work,"  sneered  the  court.  "You  mean  to  keep 
others  from  going  to  work.  Now,  Adams,  isn?t  it  true  that 
you  are  trying  to  steal  the  property  of  this  district  from  its 
legal  owners  by  riot  and  set  yourself  up  as  the  head  of  your 
Democracy  of  Labor,  to  fatten  on  the  folly  of  the  working 

597 


598  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 


men  ? ' '  The  court  did  not  pause  for  a  reply,  but  continued : 
"Now,  Adams,  there  is  no  merit  to  the  contentions  of  your 
counsel  in  this  hearing,  but,  even  if  there  was  mere  tech 
nical  weight  to  his  arguments,  the  moral  issues  involved, 
the  vast  importance  of  this  case  to  the  general  welfare  of 
this  Republic,  would  compel  this  court  to  take  judicial  no 
tice  of  the  logic  of  its  decision  in  your  favor.  For  it  would 
release  anarchy,  backed  by  legal  authority,  and  strike  down 
the  arm  of  the  State  in  protecting  property  and  suppressing 
crime. " 

The  court  paused,  and,  taking  its  heavy  spectacles  in  its 
fingers,  twirled  them  before  asking:  "Adams,  do  you  think 
you  are  a  God?  What  is  this  rot  you're  talking  about  the 
Prince  of  Peace?  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  nothing 
can  hurt  you?  If  you  know  nothing  can  hurt  you,  why 
do  you  let  your  attorney  plead  the  baby  act  and  declare  that, 
if  you  are  not  released  to-night,  a  mob  will  wait  on  you? 
If  you  are  a  God,  why  don't  you  help  yourself — quell  the 
mob,  overcome  the  devil  ? ' ' 

The  crowd  laughed  and  the  court  perfunctorily  rapped 
for  order.  The  laugh  was  frankincense  and  myrrh  to  the 
court.  So  the  court  clearly  showed  its  appreciation  of  its 
own  fine  sarcasm  as  it  rapped  for  order  and  continued  in 
solently:  "See  here,  Adams,  if  you  aren't  crazy,  what  are 
you  trying  to  do  ?  What  do  you  expect  to  get  out  of  all  this 
glib  talk  about  the  power  of  spiritual  forces  and  the  peace 
ful  revolution  and  the  power  greater  than  bullets  and  your 
fanatical  ranting  about  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  dupes  you  are 
inciting  to  murder?  Come  now,  maybe  you  are  crazy? 
Maybe  if  you'd  talk  and  not  stand  there  like  a  loon — " 

Again  the  crowd  roared  and  again  the  court  suppressed 
its  chuckle  and  again  order  was  restored.  "Maybe  if  you'd 
not  stand  there  grouching,  you'd  prove  to  the  court  that 
you  are  crazy,  and  on  the  grounds  of  insanity  the  court 
might  grant  your  prayer.  Come,  now,  Adams,  speak  up ;  go 
the  whole  length.  Give  us  your  creed !" 

"Well,"  began  Adams,  "since  you  want — " 

"Don't  you  know  how  to  address  a  court?"  The  court 
bellowed. 

"To  say  'Your  honor'  would  be  a  formality  which  even 


SOME  MERRY  SONGS  599 

your  friends  would  laugh  at,"  replied  Grant  quietly.  The 
crowd  hissed;  the  court  turned  purple.  Grant  Adams  stood 
rigid,  with  white  face  and  quivering  muscles.  His  jaws 
knotted  and  his  fist  clenched.  Yet  when  he  spoke  he  held  his 
voice  down.  In  it  was  no  evidence  of  his  tension.  Facing 
for  the  first  few  moments  of  his  speech  the  little  group  of  his 
friends — Dr.  Nesbit,  George  Brotherton,  Captain  Morton, 
Nathan  Perry  and  Amos  Adams — who  sat  at  the  lawyers' 
table  with  Henry  Fenn,  Grant  Adams  plunged  abruptly  into 
his  creed:  "1  believe  that  in  every  human  adult  conscious 
ness  there  is  a  spark  of  altruism,  a  divine  fire,  which  marks 
the  fatherhood  of  God  and  proves  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Environment  fans  that  spark  or  stifles  it.  Its  growth  is 
evidenced  in  human  institutions,  in  scales  and  grades  of 
civilization.  Christ  was  a  glowing  flame  of  this  fire."  The 
court  gave  a  knowing  wink  to  Ahab  Wright,  who  grinned  at 
the  court's  keen  sense  of  humor.  Adams  saw  the  wink,  but 
proceeded:  "That  is  what  He  means  when  He  says:  'I 
am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,'  for  only  as  men  and  na 
tions,  races  and  civilization  by  their  institutions  fan  that 
spark  to  fire,  will  they  live,  will  they  conquer  the  forces  of 
death  ever  within  them." 

Thus  far  Grant  Adams  had  been  speaking  slowly,  ad 
dressing  himself  more  to  his  friends  and  the  court  stenogra 
pher  than  the  crowd.  Now  he  faced  the  crowd  defiantly  as 
he  let  his  voice  rise  and  cried :  i  i  This  is  no  material  world. 
Humanity  is  God  trying  to  express  Himself  in  terms  of 
justice — with  the  sad  handicap  of  time  and  space  ever  hold 
ing  the  Eternal  Spirit  in  check.  We  are  all  Gods." 

Again  Market  Street,  which  worshiped  the  god  material, 
hissed.  Grant  turned  to  the  men  in  the  benches  a  mad, 
ecstatic  face  and  throwing  his  crippled  arm  high  above  his 
head,  cried  aloud : 

"O  men  of  Harvey,  men  with  whom  I  have  lived  and 
labored,  I  would  give  my  life  if  you  could  understand  me; 
if  you  could  know  in  your  hearts  how  passionately  I  yearn 
to  get  into  your  souls  the  knowledge  that  only  as  you  give 
you  will  have,  only  as  you  love  these  men  of  the  mines  and 
mills,  only  as  you  are  brothers  to  these  ginks  and  wops  and 
guinnies,  will  prosperity  come  to  Harvey.  'I  am  the  resur- 


600  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

rection  and  the  life'  should  ring  through  your  souls;  for 
when  brotherhood,  expressed  in  law  and  customs,  gives  these 
men  their  rightful  share  in  the  products  of  their  labor,  our 
resurrected  society  will  begin  to  live.''  He  stopped  dead 
still  for  a  moment,  gazing,  almost  glaring,  into  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd.  Ahab  Wright  dropped  his  gaze.  But  John 
Kollander,  who  heard  nothing,  glared  angrily  back.  Then 
leaning  forward  and  throwing  out  his  claw  as  if  to  grapple 
them,  Grant  Adams,  let  out  his  great  voice  in  a  cry  that 
startled  Market  Street  into  a  shudder  as  he  spoke.  ''Come, 
come,  come  with  us  and  live,  oh,  men  of  Market  Street,  you 
who  are  dead  and  damned!  Come  with  us  arid  live.  'I  am 
the  way  and  the  life.'  3  He  checked  his  rising  voice,  then 
said:  "Come,  let  us  go  forward  together,  for  only  then  will 
God,  striving  for  justice  in  humanity,  restore  your  dead  and 
atrophied  souls.  Have  faith  that  as  you  give  you  will  have; 
as  you  love,  will  you  live."  His  manner  changed  again. 
The  court  was  growing  restless.  Grant's  voice  was  low 
pitched,  but  it  showed  a  heavy  tension  of  emotion.  He 
stretched  his  hand  as  one  pleading:  "Oh,  come  with  us. 
Come  with  us — your  brothers.  We  are  one  body,  why  should 
we  have  different  aims?  We  are  ten  thousand  here,  you  are 
many  more.  Perhaps  we  are  only  dreaming  a  mad  dream, 
but  if  you  come  with  us  we  shall  all  awake  from  our  dream 
into  a  glorious  reality." 

Market  Street  laughed.  John  Kollander  bawled:  "He's 
an  anarchist — a  socialist!"  Grant  looked  at  the  deaf  old 
man  in  his  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons  adorned  with  many 
little  flags,  to  advertise  his  patriotism.  Taking  a  cue  from 
John  Kollander,  Grant  cried:  "I  am  moving  with  the  cur 
rent  of  Heavenly  love,  I  am  a  part  of  that  love  that  is  wash 
ing  into  this  planet  from  the  infinite  source  of  life  beyond 
our  ken.  I  am  moved,  I  know  not  how.  I  am  inspired  to 
act,  I  know  not  whence.  I  go  I  know  not  where — only  I  have 
faith,  faith  that  fears  nothing,  faith  that  tells  me  that  in 
somuch  as  I  act  in  love,  I  am  a  part  of  the  Great  Purpose 
moving  the  universe,  immortal,  all  powerful,  vital,  the  in 
carnation  of  Happiness!  I  am  trying — trying — ah,  God, 
how  I  am  trying,  to  bring  into  the  world  all  the  love  that  my 
soul  will  carry.  I  am — " 


SOME  MERRY  SONGS  601 

" That's  enough,"  snapped  the  court;  and  turning  to  Jo 
seph  Calvin,  Judge  Van  Dorn  said:  "That  man's  crazy. 
This  court  has  no  jurisdiction  over  the  insane.  His  family 
can  bring  a  proceeding  in  habeas  corpus  before  the  probate 
court  of  the  county  on  the  ground  of  the  prisoner 's  insanity. 
But  I  have  no  right  to  take  judicial  notice  of  his  insanity. ' ' 
The  Judge  folded  up  his  opinion,  twirled  his  heavy  glasses 
a  moment,  blinked  wisely  and  said :  ' '  Gentlemen,  this  is  no 
case  for  me.  This  is  a  crazy  man.  I  wash  my  hands  of  the 
whole  business!" 

He  rose,  put  away  his  glasses  deliberately,  and  was  step 
ping  from  his  dais,  when  up  rose  big  George  Brotherton  and 
cried : 

"Say,  Tom  Van  Dorn — if  you  want  this  man  murdered, 
say  so.  If  you  want  him  saved,  say  so.  Don't  polly-fox 
around  here,  dodging  the  issue.  You  know  the  truth  of  the 
matter  as  well  as — " 

The  court  smiled  tolerantly  at  the  impetuous  fellow,  who 
was  clearly  in  contempt  of  court.  The  crowd  waited  breath 
lessly. 

"Well,  George,"  said  the  suave  Judge  with  condescension 
in  his  tone  as  he  strutted  into  the  group  of  lawyers  and  re 
porters  about  him,  "if  you  know  so  much  about  this  case, 
what  is  the  truth?"  The  crowd  roared  its  approval.  "But 
hire  a  hall,  George — don't  bother  me  with  it.  It's  out  of  my 
jurisdiction. ' ' 

So  saying,  he  elbowed  his  way  out  of  the  room  into  his 
office  and  soon  was  in  his  automobile,  driving  toward  the 
Country  Club.  He  had  agreed  to  be  out  of  reach  by  tele 
phone  during  the  evening  and  that  part  of  the  agreement 
he  decided  to  keep. 

After  the  Judge  left  the  room  Market  Street  rose  and 
filed  out,  leaving  Grant  standing  among  the  little  group  of 
his  friends.  The  sheriff  stood  near  by,  chatting  with  the 
jailer  and  as  Brotherton  came  up  to  bid  Grant  good-night, 
Brotherton  felt  a  piece  of  paper  slip  into  his  hands,  when 
he  shook  hands  with  Grant.  ' '  Don 't  let  it  leave  your  pocket 
until  you  see  me  again,"  said  Grant  in  a  monotone,  that  no 
one  noticed. 

The  group — Dr.  Nesbit,  Nathan  Perry,  George  Brotherton 


602  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

and  Captain  Morton — stood  dazed  and  discouraged  about 
Grant.  No  one  knew  exactly  what  note  to  strike — whether 
of  anger  or  of  warning  or  of  cheer.  It  was  Captain  Morton 
who  broke  the  silence. 

"  'Y  gory,  man — free  speech  is  all  right,  and  I'm  going  to 
stay  with  you,  boy,  and  fight  it  out;  but,  Grant,  things  do 
look  mighty  shaky  here,  and  I  wonder  if  it's  worth  it— for 
that  class  of  people,  eh  ? " 

From  the  Captain,  Nathan  Perry  took  his  cue.  "I  should 
say,  Grant,  that  they'll  make  trouble  to-night.  Shouldn't 
we  call  out  the  boys  from  the  Valley,  and—'* 

Grant  cut  in : 

"Men,  I  know  what  you  fear,"  he  said.  "You  are  afraid 
they  will  kill  me.  Why,  they  can't  kill  me!  All  that  I  am 
that  is  worth  living  is  immortal.  What  difference  does  it 
make  about  this  body?"  His  face  was  still  lighted  with  the 
glow  it  wore  while  he  was  addressing  the  court.  "Ten 
thousand  people  in  the  Valley  have  my  faith.  And  now  I 
know  that  even  this  strike  is  not  important.  The  coming 
Democracy  of  Labor  is  a  spiritual  caste.  And  it  has  been 
planted  in  millions  of  minds.  It  can  never  die.  It  too  is 
immortal.  What  have  guns  and  ropes  and  steel  bars  to  do 
with  a  vision  like  this?"  He  threw  back  his  head,  his  blue 
eyes  blazed  and  he  all  but  chanted  his  defiance  of  material 
things:  "What  can  they  do  to  me,  to  my  faith,  to  us,  to 
these  Valley  people,  to  the  millions  in  the  world  who  see 
what  we  see,  who  know  what  we  know  and  strive  for  what 
we  cherish?  Don't  talk  to  me  about  death — there  is  no 
death  for  God's  truth.  As  for  this  miserable  body  here — " 
He  gazed  at  his  friends  for  a  moment,  shook  his  head  sadly 
and  walked  to  the  jailer. 

For  an  hour  after  the  sheriff  took  Grant  to  his  cell  as  the 
town  went  home  and  presumably  to  bed,  George  Brotherton 
with  Henry  Fenn  and  Nathan  Perry,  rolled  his  car  around 
the  court  house  square  in  the  still,  hot  June  night.  The  Doc 
tor  stood  by  his  electric  runabout,  for  half  an  hour  or  more. 
Then,  the  Doctor  feeling  that  a  false  alarm  had  been  spread, 
whirred  up  the  hill.  The  younger  men  stayed  on  Market 
Street.  They  left  it  long  after  midnight,  deserted  and  still. 

As  the  watching  party  broke  up,  a  telephone  message  from 


SOME  MERRY  SONGS  603 

the  offices  of  Calvin  &  Calvin  winged  its  way  to  Sands  Park, 
and  from  the  shades  there  came  silently  a  great  company 
of  automobiles  with  hooded  lights.  One  separated  from  the 
others  and  shot  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Wahoo.  The 
others  went  into  Market  Street. 

At  three  o'clock  the  work  there  was  done.  The  office  of  the 
Harvey  Tribune  was  wrecked,  and  in  one  automobile  rode 
Amos  Adams,  a  prisoner,  while  before  him,  surrounded  by  a 
squad  of  policemen,  rode  Grant  Adams,  bound  and  gagged. 

Around  the  policemen  the  mob  gathered,  and  at  the  city 
limits  the  policemen  abandoned  Grant  and  Amos.  Their  in 
structions  were  to  take  the  two  men  out  of  town.  The  police 
men  knew  the  mob.  It  was  not  Market  Street.  It  was  the 
thing  that  Market  Street  had  made  with  its  greed.  The  igno 
rance  of  the  town,  the  scum  of  the  town — men,  white  and 
black,  whom  Market  Street,  in  thoughtless  greed  the  world 
over,  had  robbed  as  children  of  their  birthright;  men  whose 
chief  joy  was  in  cruelty  and  who  lusted  for  horror.  The 
mob  was  the  earth-bound  demon  of  Market  Street.  Only 
John  Kollander  in  his  brass  buttons  and  blue  soldier  clothes 
and  stuttering  Kyle  Perry  and  one  or  two  others  of  the 
town's  respectability  were  with  the  mob  that  took  Grant 
Adams  and  his  father  after  the  policemen  released  the  father 
and  son  at  the  city  limits.  The  respectables  directed;  the 
scum  and  the  scruff  of  the  town  followed,  yelping  not  unlike 
a  pack  of  hungry  dogs. 

John  Kollander  led  the  way  to  the  country  club  grounds. 
There  was  a  wide  stretch  of  rolling  land,  quiet,  remote  from 
passing  intruders,  safe;  and  there  great  elm  trees  cast  their 
protecting  shade,  even  in  the  starlight,  over  such  deeds  as 
men  might  wish  to  do  in  darkness. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  and  the  clouds,  banked  high  in 
the  west,  were  flaming  with  heat  lightning. 

On  the  wide  veranda  of  the  country  club  alone,  with  a 
siphon  and  a  fancy,  square,  black  bottle,  sat  Judge  Thomas 
Van  Dorn.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  His  wilted  collar, 
grimy  and  bedraggled,  lay  on  the  floor  beside  him.  He  was 
laughing  at  something  not  visible  to  the  waiter,  who  sat 
drowsing  in  the  door  of  the  dining  room,  waiting  for  the 
Judge  either  to  go  to  sleep  or  to  leave  the  club  in  his  car. 


604  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

The  Judge  had  been  singing  to  himself  and  laughing  quietly 
at  his  own  ribaldry  for  nearly  an  hour.  The  heat  had  smoth 
ered  the  poker  game  in  the  basement  and  except  for  the 
Judge  and  the  waiter  the  club  house  was  deserted.  The 
Judge  hit  the  table  with  the  black  bottle  and  babbled : 

"Dog  bit  a  rve  straw, 
Dog  bit  aViddle-0! 
Dog  bit  a   little  boy 
Playing  on  a  fiddle-0!" 

Then  he  laughed  and  said  to  the  sleepy  waiter:  "Didn't 
know  I  could  sing,  did  you,  Gustave!" 

The  waiter  grinned.  The  Judge  did  not  hear  a  footstep 
behind  him.  The  waiter  looked  up  and  saw  Kyle  Perry. 

"Oh,  1  know  a  maid 
And  she's  not  afraid 
To  face — 

"Why,  hello  Kyle,  you  old  stuttering  scoundrel — have  one 
on  me — cleanses  the  teeth — sweetens  the  breath  and  makes 
hair  grow  on  your  belly!" 

He  laughed  and  when  Kyle  broke  in : 

"S-s-say,  T-T-Tom,  the  f-f -fellows  are  all  over  in  the 
g-g-golf  1-1-links." 

' '  The  hell  they  are,  Kyle, ' '  laughed  the  Judge.  ' '  Tell  'em 
to  come  over  and  have  a  cold  one  on  me — Gustave,  you  go — " 

"B-b-but  they  d-don't  want  a  drink.  The  p-p-poker 
b-b-bunch  said  you  were  here  and  th-th-they  s-s-sent  m-m-me 
to—" 

"S-s-s-sure  they  d-d-did,  Kyle,"  interrupted  Van  Dorn. 
"They  sent  you  to  read  the  Declaration  of  Independence  to 
morrow  and  wanted  you  to  begin  now  and  get  a  g-g-good 
st-st-start ! "  He  broke  into  song: 

"Oh,  there  was  an  old  man  from  Dundee 

Who  got  on  a  hell  of  a  spree, 
Oil,  he  wound  up  the  clock, 
With- 

"Say,  Kyle,"  the  Judge  looked  up  foolishly,  "you  didn't 
know  that  I  was  a  cantatrice."  He  laughed  and  repeated 
the  last  word  slowly  three  times  and  then  giggled. 


SOME  MERRY  SONGS  605 

''Still  sober.  I  tell  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  that  when  I  can  say 
eantatrice  or  specification,"  he  repeated  that  word  slowly, 
" I'm  fit  to  hold  court." 

"Oh,  the  keyhole  in  the  door— 
The  keyhole  in  the  door — " 

he  bellowed. 

"Now,  1-1-listen,  T-T-Tom,"  insisted  Perry.  "I  t-t-tell 
you  the  bunch  has  g-g-got  Grant  Adams  and  the  old  man  out 
there  in  the  g-g-golf  1-liiiks  and  they  heard  you  were  h-h-here 
and  they  s-s-sent  me  to  tell  you  they  were  g-g-going  to 
g-g-give  him  all  the  d-d-degrees  and  they  w-w-want  to  t-t-tie 
a  s-s-sign  on  him  when  they  t-t-turn  him  loose  and  h-h-head 
him  for  Om-m-ma-h-ha — " 

"B-b-better  h-h-h-head  him  for  h-h-hell,"  mocked  the 
Judge. 

''Well,  they've  g-got  an  iron  b-b-band  they've  b-b-bound 
on  h-h-him  and  they've  got  a  b-b-board  and  some  t-t-tar  and 
they  w-w-waiit  a  m-motto. ' ' 

The  Judge  reached  for  his  fountain  pen  in  his  white  vest 
and  when  the  waiter  had  brought  a  sheet  of  paper,  he  scrib 
bled  while  he  sang  sleepily : 

"Oh,  there  was  a  man  and  he  could  do, 
He  could  do — he  could  do; 

"Here,"  he  pushed  the  paper  to  Perry,  who  saw  the 
words : 

"Get  on  to  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Big  Boss  of  the  Democracy  of  Labor." 

"That's  k-k-kind  of  t-t-tame,  don't  y-y-you  think?"  said 
Kyle. 

"That's  all  right,  Kyle — anyway,  what  I've  written  goes! 

"Oh,  there  was  an  old  woman  in  Guiana." 

lie  sang  and  waved  Kyle  proudly  away.  And  in  another 
hour  the  waiter  had  put  him  to  bed. 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  George  Brotherton  had  told  his 


606  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

story  to  Laura.  They  sat  in  the  little,  close,  varnish-smell 
ing  room  to  which  he  called  her. 

She  had  come  through  rain  from  Harvey.  As  she  came 
into  the  dreary,  shabby,  little  room  in  South  Harvey,  with 
its  artificial  palms  and  artificial  wreaths — cheap,  commer 
cial  habiliments  of  ostentatious  mourning,  Laura  Van  Dorn 
thought  how  cruel  it  was  that  he  should  be  there,  in  a  public 
place  at  the  end,  with  only  the  heavy  hands  of  paid  attend 
ants  to  do  the  last  earthly  services  for  him — whose  whole 
life  was  a  symbol  of  love. 

But  her  heart  was  stricken,  deeply,  poignantly  stricken 
by  the  great  peace  she  found  behind  the  white  door.  Yet 
thus  the  dust  touches  our  souls'  profoundest  depths — always 
with  her  memory  of  that  great  peace,  comes  the  memory  of 
the  odor  of  varnish  and  carbolic  acid  and  the  drawn,  spent 
face  of  George  Brotherton,  as  he  stood  before  her  when  she 
closed  the  door.  He  gazed  at  her  piteously,  a  wreck  of  a 
man,  storm-battered  and  haggard.  His  big  hands  were 
shaking  with  a  palsy  of  terrible  grief.  His  moon  face  was 
inanimate,  and  vagrant  emotions  from  his  heart  flicked 
across  his  features  in  quivers  of  anguish.  His  thin  hair 
was  tousled  and  his  clothes  were  soiled  and  disheveled. 

"I  thought  you  ought  to  know,  Laura — at  once,"  he  said, 
after  she  had  closed  the  white  door  behind  her  and  sat 
numb  and  dumb  before  him.  "Nate  and  Henry  and  I  got 
there  about  four  o  'clock.  Well,  there  they  were — by  the  big 
elm  tree — on  the  golf  course.  His  father  was  there  and  he 
told  me  coming  back  that  when  they  wanted  Grant  to  do  any 
thing — they  would  string  up  Amos — poor  old  Amos !  They 
made  Grant  stoop  over  and  kiss  the  flag,  while  they  kicked 
him;  and  they  made  him  pull  that  machine  gun  around  the 
lake.  The  fools  brought  it  up  from  the  camp  in  South 
Harvey."  Brotherton 's  face  quivered,  but  his  tears  were 
gone.  He  continued:  "They  strung  poor  old  Amos  up 
four  times,  Laura — four  times,  he  says."  Brotherton  looked 
wearily  into  the  street.  "Well,  as  we  came  down  the  hill  in 
our  car,  we  could  see  Grant.  He  was  nearly  naked — about 
as  he  is  now.  We  came  tearing  down  the  hill,  our  siren 
screaming  and  Nate  and  me  yelling  and  waving  our  guns. 
At  the  first  scream  of  our  siren,  there  was  an  awful  roar  and 


SOME  MERRY  SONGS  607 

a  flash.  Some  one,"  Brotherton  paused  and  turned  his  hag 
gard  eyes  toward  Laura — "it  was  deaf  John  Kollander,  he 
turned  the  lever  and  fired  that  machine  gun.  Oh,  Laura, 
God,  it  was  awful.  I  saw  Grant  wilt  down.  I  saw — " 

The  man  broke  into  tears,  but  bit  his  lips  and  continued: 
"Oh,  they  ran  like  snakes  then — like  snakes — like  snakes, 
and  we  came  crashing  down  to  the  tree  and  in  a  moment 
the  last  machine  had  piked — but  I  know  'em,  every  man- 
jack!"  he  cried.  "There  was  the  old  man,  tied  hand  and 
foot,  three  yards  from  the  tree,  and  there,  half  leaning,  half 
sitting  by  the  tree,  the  boy,  the  big,  red-headed,  broken  and 
crippled  boy — was  panting  his  life  out."  Brotherton  caught 
her  inquiring  eyes.  ' '  It  was  all  gone,  Laura, ' '  he  said  softly, 
"all  gone.  He  was  the  boy,  the  shy,  gentle  boy  that  we  used 
to  know — and  always  have  loved.  All  this  other  that  the 
years  have  brought  was  wiped  from  his  eyes.  They  were  so 
tender  and — "  He  could  go  no  further.  She  nodded  her 
understanding.  He  finally  continued:  "The  first  thing  he 
said  to  me  was,  'It's  all  right,  George.'  He  was  tied,  they 
had  pulled  the  claw  off  and  his  poor  stumped  arm  was  show 
ing  and  he  was  bleeding — oh,  Laura." 

Brotherton  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  handed  an  en 
velope  to  her. 

"  'George,'  he  panted,  as  I  tried  to  make  him  comfortable 
— 'have  Nate  look  after  father.'  And  when  Nate  had  gone 
he  whispered  between  gasps,  'that  letter  there  in  the  court 
room — '  He  had  to  stop  a  moment,  then  he  whispered 
again,  'is  for  her,  for  Laura.'  He  tried  to  smile,  but  the 
blood  kept  bubbling  up.  We  lifted  him  into  an  easier  posi 
tion,  but  nothing  helped  much.  He  realized  that  and  when 
we  quit  he  said : 

"  'Now  then,  George,  promise  me  this — they're  not  to 
blame.  John  Kollander  isn  't  to  blame.  It  was  funny ;  Kyle 
Perry  saw  him  as  I  did,  and  Kyle — '  he  almost  laughed, 
Laura. 

"  'Kyle/  he  repeated,  'tried  to  yell  at  old  John,  but  got 
so  excited  stuttering,  he  couldn't!  I'm  sure  the  fellows 
didn't  intend — '  he  was  getting  weak;  'this,'  he  said. 

"  'Promise  me  and  make — others;  you  won't  tell.  I  know 
father — he  won't.  They're  not — it's — society.  Just  that,' 


608  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

he  said.  'This  was  society!'  He  had  to  stop.  I  felt  his 
hand  squeeze.  'I'm — so — happy/  he  said  one  word  at  a 
time,  gripping  my  hand  tighter  and  tighter  till  it  ached." 
Brotherton  put  out  his  great  hand,  and  looked  at  it  imper 
sonally,  as  one  introducing  a  stranger  for  witness.  Then 
Brotherton  lifted  his  eyes  to  Laura's  and  took  up  his  story: 
'That's  hers,'  he  said;  'the  letter,'  and  then  'my  mes 
sages — happy.'  ' 

The  woman  pressed  her  letter  to  her  lips  and  looked  at 
the  white  door.  She  rose  and,  holding  her  letter  to  her 
bosom,  closed  her  eyes  and  stood  with  a  hand  on  the  knob. 
She  dropped  her  hand  and  turned  from  the  white  door. 
The  dawn  was  graying  in  the  ugly  street.  But  on  the  clouds 
the  glow  of  sunrise  blushed  in  promise.  She  walked  slowly 
toward  the  street.  She  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  glorious 
sky  of  dawn. 

When  her  eyes  met  her  friend 's,  she  cried : 

"Give  me  your  hand — that  hand!" 

She  seized  it,  gazed  hungrily  at  it  a  second,  then  kissed 
it  passionately.  She  looked  back  at  the  white  door,  and 
shook  with  sobs  as  she  cried : 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  he's  there — there  in  the  night — be 
hind  the  door?  We  know — oh,  we  do  know  he's  out  here — 
out  here  in  the  dawn." 


CHAPTER  LI 

IN   WHICH   WE  END  AS   WE   BEGAN   AND  ALL  LIVE   HAPPILY 
EVER   AFTER 

THE  great  strike  in  the  Wahoo  Valley  now  is  only  an 
episode  in  the  history  of  this  struggle  of  labor  for 
its  rights.  The  episode  is  receding  year  by  year 
further  and  more  dimly  into  the  past  and  is  one  of  the  long, 
half-forgotten  skirmishes  wherein  labor  is  learning  the  truth 
that  only  in  so  far  as  labor  dares  to  lean  on  peace  and  effi 
ciency  can  labor  move  upward  in  the  scale  of  life.  The 
larger  life  with  its  wider  hope,  requires  the  deeper  fellow 
ship  of  men.  The  winning  or  losing  of  the  strike  in  the 
Wahoo  meant  little  in  terms  of  winning  or  losing;  but  be 
cause  the  men  kept  the  peace,  kept  it  to  the  very  end,  the 
strike  meant  much  in  terms  of  progress.  For  what  they 
gained  was  permanent;  based  on  their  own  strength,  not  on 
the  weakness  of  those  who  would  deny  them. 

But  the  workers  in  the  mines  and  mills  of  the  Wahoo 
Valley,  who  have  gone  to  and  from  their  gardens,  planting 
and  cultivating  and  harvesting  their  crops  for  many  chang 
ing  seasons,  hold  the  legend  of  the  strong  man,  maimed  and 
scarred,  who  led  them  in  that  first  struggle  with  themselves, 
to  hold  themselves  worthy  of  their  dreams.  In  a  hundred 
little  shacks  in  the  gardens,  and  in  dingy  rooms  in  the  tene 
ments  may  be  found  even  to-day  newspaper  clippings  pinned 
to  the  wall  with  his  picture  on  them,  all  curled  up  and  yel 
low  with  years.  Before  a  wash-stand,  above  a  bed  or  pasted 
over  the  kitchen  stove,  soiled  and  begrimed,  these  clippings 
recall  the  story  of  the  man  who  gave  his  life  to  prove  his 
creed.  So  the  fellowship  he  brought  into  the  world  lives  on. 
And  the  fellowship  that  came  into  the  world  as  Grant 
Adams  went  out  of  it,  touched  a  wider  circle  than  the  group 
with  whom  he  lived  and  labored.  The  sad  sincerity  with 

609 


610  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

which  he  worked  proved  to  Market  Street  that  the  man  was 
consecrated  to  a  noble  purpose,  and  Market  Street's  heart 
learned  a  lesson.  Indeed  the  lives  of  that  long  procession  of 
working  men  who  have  given  themselves  so  freely — where 
life  was  all  they  had  to  give — for  the  freedom  of  their  fel 
lows  from  the  bondage  of  the  times,  the  lives  of  these  men 
have  found  their  highest  value  in  making  the  Market  Street 
eternal,  realize  its  own  shame.  So  Grant  Adams  lay  down 
in  the  company  of  his  peers  that  Market  Street  might  under 
stand  in  his  death  what  his  fellows  really  hoped  for.  He 
was  a  seed  that  is  sown  and  falls  upon  good  ground.  For 
Market  Street  after  all  is  not  a  stony  place ;  seeds  sown  there 
bring  forth  great  harvests.  And  while  the  harvest  of  Grant 
Adams's  life  is  not  at  hand;  the  millennium  is  not  here; 
the  seed  is  quickening  in  the  earth.  And  great  things  are 
moving  in  the  world. 

Of  course,  there  came  a  time  in  Harvey,  even  in  the  house 
of  Nesbit,  when  there  was  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage. 
It  was  on  a  winter's  night  when  the  house  inside  the  deep, 
dark  Moorish  verandas,  celebrating  Mrs.  Nesbit 's  last  bout 
with  the  spirit  of  architecture,  glowed  with  a  jewel  of  li^ht. 

And  in  due  course  they  appeared,  Rev.  Dr.  John  Dexter 
leading  the  way,  followed  by  a  thin,  dark-skinned  young 
man  with  eyes  to  match  and  a  rather  slight,  shortish  girl, 
blond  and  pink  with  happy  trimmings  and  real  pearls  on 
her  eyelashes.  The  children  jabbered,  and  the  women  wept 
and  the  men  wiped  their  eyes,  and  it  was  altogether  a  gay 
occasion.  Just  as  the  young  people  were  ready  to  look  the 
world  squarely  in  the  face,  George  Brotherton,  thinking  he 
heard  some  one  moving  outside  in  the  deep,  dark  veranda, 
flicked  on  the  porch  light,  and  through  the  windows  he 
saw — and  the  merry  company  could  not  help  seeing  two 
faces — two  wan,  unhappy  faces,  staring  hungrily  in  at  the 
bridal  pair.  They  stood  at  different  corners  of  the  house 
and  did  not  seem  to  know  of  one  another's  presence  until 
the  light  revealed  them.  Only  an  instant  did  their  faces 
flash  into  the  light,  as  John  Dexter  was  reading  from  the 
Bible  a  part  of  the  service  that  he  loved  to  put  in,  "and 


ALL  LIVE  HAPPILY  EVER  AFTER  611 

forbid  them  not,  for  of  such,  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.'7 
The  faces  vanished,  there  was  a  scurrying  across  the  cement 
floor  of  the  veranda  and  two  figures  met  on  the  lawn  in 
shame  and  anger. 

But  they  in  the  house  did  not  know  of  the  meeting.  For 
everybody  was  kissing  everybody  else,  and  the  peppermint 
candy  in  little  Grant  Brotherton's  mouth  tasted  on  a  score 
of  lips  in  three  minutes,  and  a  finger  dab  of  candy  on 
Jasper  Adams's  shirt  front  made  the  world  akin. 

After  the  guests  had  gone,  three  old  men  lingered  by  the 
smoldering  logs.  "Well,  now,  Doc  Jim,"  asked  Amos, 
"why  shouldn't  I?  Haven't  I  paid  taxes  in  Greeley  County 
for  nearly  fifty  years  ?  Didn  't  I  make  the  campaign  for  that 
home  in  the  nineties,  when  they  called  it  the  poor  house — 
most  people  call  it  that  now.  I  only  stay  there  when  I  am 
lonesome  and  I  go  out  in  a  taxi-cab  at  the  county's  expense 
like  a  gentleman  to  his  estate.  And  I  guess  it  is  my  estate. 
I  was  talking  to  Lincoln  about  it  the  other  night,  and  he 
says  he  approves.  Ruskin  says  I  am  living  my  religion  like 
a  diamond  in  the  rock." 

To  the  Captain's  protest  he  answered,  "Oh,  yes,  I  know 
that — but  that  would  be  charity.  My  pencils  and  shoe 
strings  and  collar  buttons  and  coat  hangers  keep  me  in 
spending  money.  I  couldn't  take  charity  even  from  you 
men.  And  Jasper's  money,"  the  gray  poll  wagged,  and 
he  cried,  "Oh,  no — not  Ahab  Wright's  and  Kyle  Perry's — 
not  that  money.  Kenyon  is  forever  slipping  me  fifty.  But 
I  don't  need  it.  John  Dexter  keeps  a  room  always  ready 
for  me,  and  I  like  it  at  the  Dexters'  almost  as  much  as  I 
do  at  the  county  home.  So  I  don't  really  need  Keiiyon's 
money,  however  much  joy  he  takes  in  giving  it.  And  I  raise 
the  devil's  own.  fuss  to  keep  him  from  doing  it." 

The  Doctor  puffed,  and  the  Captain  in  his  regal  garments 
paraded  the  long  room,  with  his  hands  locked  under  his 
coattails. 

"But,  Amos,"  cried  the  Captain,  "under  the  law,  no  man 
wearing  that  button,"  and  the  Captain  looked  at  the  tri 
color  of  the  Loyal  Legion,  proudly  adorning  the  shiny  coat, 
"no  soldier  under  the  law,  has  to  go  out  there.  They've 


612  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

got  to  keep  you  here  in  town,  and  besides  you're  entitled 
to  a  whopping  lot  of  pension  money  for  all  these  unclaimed 
years. ' ' 

The  white  old  head  shook  and  the  pursed  old  lips  smiled, 
as  the  thin  little  voice  replied,  ''Not  yet,  Ezra — not  yet — I 
don't  need  the  pension  yet.  And  as  for  the  Home — it's  not 
lonesome  there.  A  lot  of  'em  are  bedfast  and  stricken  and 
I  get  a  certain  amount  of  fun — chirping  'em  up  on  cloudy 
days.  They  like  to  hear  from  Emerson  and  John  A.  Logan, 
and  Sitting  Bull  and  Huxley  and  their  comrades.  So  I 
guess  1  'm  being  more  or  less  useful. ' '  He  stroked  his  scraggy 
beard  and  looked  at  the  fire.  "And  then,"  he  added,  "she 
always  seems  nearer  where  there  is  sorrow.  Grant,  too,  is 
that  way,  though  neither  of  'em  really  has  come." 

The  Captain  finding  that  his  money  was  ashes  in  his  hands, 
and  not  liking  the  thought  and  meditation  of  death,  changed 
the  subject,  and  when  the  evening  was  old,  Amos  Adams 
called  a  taxi-cab,  and  at  the  county's  expense  rode  home. 

At  the  end  of  a  hard  winter  day,  descending  tardily  into 
the  early  spring,  they  missed  him  at  the  farm.  No  one 
knew  whether  he  had  gone  to  visit  the  Dexters,  as  was  his 
weekly  wont,  or  whether  he  was  staying  with  Captain  Mor 
ton  in  town,  where  he  sometimes  spent  Saturday  night  after 
the  Grand  Army  meeting. 

The  next  day  the  sun  came  out  and  melted  the  untimely 
snow  banks.  And  some  country  boys  playing  by  a  lime 
stone  ledge  in  a  wide  upland  meadow  above  the  Wahoo,  far 
from  the  smoke  of  town,  came  upon  the  body  of  an  old  man. 
Beside  him  was  strewn  a  meager  peddler's  kit.  On  his 
knees  was  a  tablet  of  paper ;  in  his  left  hand  was  a  pencil 
tightly  gripped.  On  the  tablet  in  a  fine,  even  hand  were  the 
words:  "I  am  here,  Amos,"  and  his  old  eyes,  stark  and 
wide,  were  drooped,  perhaps  to  look  at  the  tri-color  of  the 
Loyal  Legion  that  shone  on  his  shrunken  chest  and  told  of 
a  great  dream  of  a  nation  come  true,  or  perhaps  in  the  dead, 
stark  eyes  was  another  vision  in  another  world. 

And  so  as  in  the  beginning,  there  was  blue  sky  and  sun 
shine  and  prairie  grass  at  the  end. 


CHAPTER  LII 

NOT   EXACTLY   A    CHAPTER   BUT   RATHER   A   QED   OR   A   HIC 
FABULA   DOCET 


*'  A  ^D  the  ^oo1  sa^  *n  his  heart,  tnere  is  no  God!" 
/\  And  this  fable  teaches,  if  it  teaches  anything,  that 

.XJL  the  fool  was  indeed  a  fool.  Now  do  not  think  that 
his  folly  lay  chiefly  in  glutting  his  life  with  drab  material 
things,  with  wives  and  concubines,  with  worldly  power  and 
glory.  That  was  but  a  small  part  of  his  folly.  For  that  con 
cerned  himself.  That  turned  upon  his  own  little  destiny. 
The  vast  folly  of  the  fool  came  with  his  blindness.  He  could 
not  see  the  beautiful  miracle  of  progress  that  God  has  been 
working  in  this  America  of  ours  during  these  splendid  fifty 
years  that  have  closed  a  great  epoch. 

And  what  a  miracle  it  was !  Here  lay  a  continent — rich, 
crass,  material,  beckoning  humanity  to  fall  down  and  worship 
the  god  of  gross  and  palpable  realities.  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  here  stood  the  American  spirit — the  eternal  love  of 
freedom,  which  had  brought  men  across  the  seas,  had  bid 
them  fight  kings  and  principalities  and  powers,  had  forced 
them  into  the  wilderness  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands  to 
make  of  it  "the  homestead  of  the  free";  the  spirit  that  had 
called  them  by  the  millions  to  wage  a  terrible  civil  war  for  a 
great  ideal. 

This  spirit  met  the  god  of  things  as  they  are,  and  for  a 
generation  grappled  in  a  mighty  struggle. 

And  men  said:  The  old  America  is  dead;  America  is 
money  mad ;  America  is  a  charnel  house  of  greed.  Millions 
and  millions  of  men  from  all  over  the  earth  came  to  her 
shores.  And  the  world  said :  They  have  brought  only  their 
greed  with  them.  And  still  the  struggle  went  on.  The  con 
tinent  was  taken ;  man  abolished  the  wilderness.  A  new  civi 
lization  rose.  And  because  it  was  strong,  the  world  said  it 

613 


614  IN  THE  HEART  OF  A  FOOL 

was  not  of  the  old  America,  but  of  a  new,  soft,  wicked  order, 
which  wist  not  that  God  had  departed  from  it. 

Then  the  new  epoch  dawned ;  clear  and  strong  came  the  call 
to  Americans  to  go  forth  and  fight  in  the  Great  War — not  for 
themselves,  not  for  their  own  glory,  nor  their  own  safety,  but 
for  the  soul  of  the  world.  And  the  old  spirit  of  America  rose 
and  responded.  The  long  inward  struggle,  seen  only  by  the 
wise,  only  by  those  who  knew  how  God's  truth  conquers  in 
this  earth,  working  beneath  the  surface,  deep  in  the  heart  of 
things,  the  long  inward  struggle  of  the  spirit  of  America  for 
its  own  was  won. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  the  richness  of  the  continent  was 
poured  out  for  an  ideal,  that  the  genius  of  those  who  had 
seemed  to  be  serving  only  Mammon  was  devoted  passionately 
to  a  principle,  and  that  the  blood  of  those  who  came  in  seem 
ing  greed  to  America  was  shed  gloriously  in  the  high  emprise 
which  called  America  to  this  new  world  crusade.  Moses  in 
the  burning  bush  speaking  with  God,  Saul  on  the  road  to 
Damascus,  never  came  closer  to  the  force  outside  ourselves 
which  makes  for  righteousness, — the  force  that  has  guided 
humanity  upward  through  the  ages, — than  America  has  come 
in  this  hour  of  her  high  resolve.  And  yet  for  fifty  years  she 
has  come  into  this  holy  ground  steadily,  and  unswervingly; 
indeed,  for  a  hundred  years,  for  three  hundred  years  from 
Plymouth  Rock  to  the  red  fields  of  France,  America  has  come 
a  long  and  perilous  way — yet  always  sure,  and  never  falter 
ing. 

To  have  lived  in  the  generation  now  passing,  to  have  seen 
the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  to  have  watched  the  steady  triumph  in  our  American 
life  of  the  spirit  of  justice,  of  fellowship  over  the  spirit  of 
greed,  to  have  seen  the  Holy  Ghost  rise  in  the  life  of  a  whole 
nation,  was  a  blessed  privilege.  And  if  this  tale  has  reflected 
from  the  shallow  paper  hearts  of  those  phantoms  flitting 
through  its  pages  some  glimpse  of  their  joy  in  their  pilgrim 
age,  the  story  has  played  its  part.  If  the  fable  of  Grant 
Adams's  triumphant  failure  does  not  dramatize  in  some  way 
the  victory  of  the  American  spirit — the  Puritan  conscience — 
in  our  generation,  then,  alas,  this  parable  has  fallen  short  of 
its  aim.  But  most  of  all,  if  the  story  has  not  shown  how 


NOT  EXACTLY  A  CHAPTER  615 

sad  a  thing  it  is  to  sit  in  the  seat  of  the  scornful,  and  to  deny 
the  reality  of  God's  purpose  in  this  world,  even  though  it  is 
denied  in  pomp  and  power  and  pride,  then  indeed  this  nar 
rative  has  failed.  For  in  all  this  world  one  finds  no  other 
place  so  dreary  and  so  desolate  as  it  is  in  the  heart  of  a  fool. 


THE   END 


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THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers      64-66  Fifth  Avenue      New  York 


The  Martial  Adventures 
of  Henry  and  Me 

BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

Cloth,  $1.50 

"  A  jolly  book  .  .  .  truly  one  of  the  best  that  has  yet 
come  down  war's  grim  pike." — New  York  Post. 

"  Honest  from  first  to  last.  .  .  .  Resembles  '  Innocents 
Abroad '  in  scheme  and  laughter  ...  a  vivid  picture  of 
Europe  at  this  hour.  Should  be  thrice  blessed,  for  man 
and  book  light  up  a  world  in  the  gloom  of  war." — New 
York  Sun. 

"  A  unique  chronicle,  genuine  and  sincere." —  New 
York  Times. 

Here  is  a  book  of  truth  and  humor.  One  of  the  first 
stories  by  an  American  that  tell  what  America  has  done 
and  is  doing  "  over  there."  It  is  a  tale  such  as  Mark 
Twain  would  have  written  had  he  lived  to  do  his  bit  in 
France. 

Two  "  short,  fat,  bald,  middle-aged,  inland  Amer 
icans  "  cross  over  to  France  with  commissions  from  the 
Red  Cross.  Their  experiences  are  told  in  a  bubbling  humor 
that  is  irresistible.  The  sober  common  sense  and  the 
information  about  the  work  going  on  in  France  —  the  way 
our  men  take  hold  and  the  French  respond  —  go  to  make 
this  the  book  all  Americans  have  long  been  waiting  for. 

The  inimitable  sketches  of  Tony  Sarg,  distributed 
throughout,  lend  a  clever,  human  atmosphere  to  the  text. 


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Publishers     64-S6  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


A  Certain  Rich  Man 


BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 
Author  of  "  What's  the  Matter  with  Kansas  ?  " 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.50 

The  absorbing  story  of  the  career  of  a  remarkable 
money-maker  and  his  associates.  A  powerful  book  full 
of  United  States  life  and  colour,  taking  front  rank  among 
the  best  modern  novels. 

"It  pulsates  with  humour,  interest,  passionate  love,  ad 
venture,  pathos  —  every  page  is  woven  with  threads  of 
human  nature,  life  as  we  know  it,  as  it  is,  and  above  it  all 
a  spirit  of  righteousness,  true  piety,  and  heroic  patriotism. 
These  inspire  the  author's  genius  and  fine  literary  quality, 
thrilling  the  reader  with  tenderest  emotion,  and  holding  to 
the  end  his  unflagging  and  absorbing  interest." — G.  W.  O. 
in  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  This  novel  has  a  message  for  today,  and  for  its  bril 
liant  character  drawing,  and  that  gossipy  desultory  style  of 
writing  that  stamps  Mr.  White's  literary  work,  will  earn 
a  high  place  in  fiction.  It  is  good  and  clean  and  provides 
a  vacation  from  the  cares  of  the  hour.  It  resembles  a 
Chinese  play,  because  it  begins  with  the  hero's  boyhood, 
describes  his  long,  busy  life,  and  ends  with  his  death.  Its 
tone  is  often  religious,  never  flippant,  and  one  of  its  best 
assets  is  its  glowing  descriptions  of  the  calm,  serene 
beauties  of  nature.  Its  moral  is  that  a  magnate  never  did 
any  real  good  with  money." —  Oregonian,  Portland,  Oregon. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers     64-66  Fifth  Avenue     New  York 


Other  Books  by  William  Allen  White 

COURT  OF  BOYVILLE 

Illustrated  Cloth          i2mo  $1.50 

There  are  few  men  in  the  world  who  have  pictured  that  strange  creation, 
the  Boy,  as  he  actually  is.  One  of  these  men  is  Mr.  White.  His  Kansas 
boys  are  a  delight,  and  the  recollections  they  will  awaken  in  the  mind  of 
any  man  will  cause  him  to  congratulate  himself  for  having  read  the  book. 

IN   OUR  TOWN 

Illustrated      Cloth      rzmo      $1.50 

Mr.  White  suggests  Barrie  more  than  any  other  living  writer.  His  new 
book  does  for  the  daily  life  of  a  modern  Kansas  town  just  what  Barrie  has 
done  for  a  Scotch  town  in  "A  Window  in  Thrums." 

"  It  is  *  Boyville  '  grown  up  ;  bett  ^r  because  more  skilfully  and  deftly 
done  ;  riper,  because  '  Bill  '  is  a  bigger  boy  now  than  he  was  five  years 
ago,  and  more  human.  No  writer  to-day  handles  the  small  town  life  to 
compare  with  White,  and  this  is  the  best  book  he  has  yet  done."  —  Lot 
Angeles  Herald. 

STRATAGEMS  AND   SPOILS 

Illustrated  Cloth  izmo 


There  are  hours  and  days  and  long  years  in  the  lives  of  men  and  women 
wherein  strong  passions  are  excited  and  great  human  interests  are  at  stake. 
The  ambition  for  power,  the  greed  for  money,  the  desire  to  win  the  game, 
the  hunger  for  fame,  parental  love,  anger,  friendship,  hate,  and  revenge  — 
the  primitive  passions  that  move  men  and  the  world  powerfully  —  certainly 
these  deserve  as  important  a  place  in  the  chronicles  of  the  human  animal 
as  does  the  mating  instinct.  It  is  with  this  idea  in  mind  that  Mr.  White 
has  set  the  stories  in  this  volume  in  the  field  of  American  politics,  where 
every  human  emotion  finds  free  play. 

THE    REAL    ISSUE 

Cloth  izmo 


"It  pulsates  with  humor,  interest,  passionate  love,  adventures,  pathos  — 
every  page  is  woven  with  threads  of  human  nature,  life  as  we  know  it,  life 
as  it  is,  and  above  it  all  a  spirit  of  righteousness,  true  piety,  and  heroic 
patriotism.  These  inspire  the  author's  genius  and  fine  literary  quality, 
thrilling  the  reader  with  tenderest  emotion,  and  holding  to  the  end  his 
unflagging,  absorbing  interest."  —  The  Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fiftn  Avenue,  New  York 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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Berkeley 


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